


M-RYS

by mornmeril



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, But with a happy ending!, Destiny, Drama, Epic Love, Insomnia, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Merlin Big Bang Challenge, Politics, Powerful!Merlin, Prophecy, Protectiveness, Pseudoscience, Romance, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Slow Build, Soul Bond, elitist society, lot of it, novel-length, though ridiculously late i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 123,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2355 and Arthur Pendragon is the darling of Albion's capitol, Camelot. He's rich, handsome and the heir to Pendragon Enterprises, the world market leader of technology.</p>
<p>Of course behind the facade, Arthur's life is far from perfect. His father is a demanding man and the betrayal of his ex-girlfriend has left him with even more issues than before, while through it all he's doing his best to take care of his mentally ill sister.</p>
<p>But things really start to escalate when Arthur is put in charge of launching a new series of android models, the M-RYS line, and he discovers a malfunctioning model that seems more like a human than a computer.</p>
<p>Things only go downhill from there.</p>
<p>Between struggling with his ever growing feelings for Merlin and discovering one strange thing after the other, Arthur's world is completely upended as he and Merlin embark on a mission to discover his father's secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Initialised

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KJNeely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJNeely/gifts).



> This ridiculous monster is my contribution to the [Merlin Reverse Big Bang](http://merlinreversebb.livejournal.com/), done for the absolutely breathtaking art by [KJNeely](http://kjneely.livejournal.com/) which is embedded in the story, but pls go over to [masterpost](http://kjneely.deviantart.com/gallery/48793978) and give her lots and lots of love and praise.
> 
> \- [KJNeely](http://kjneely.livejournal.com/), my dear, it was a pleasure working with you, I loved every minute! Thank you for putting up with me and my terrible ways and I rly, rly, rly hope you'll enjoy what I came up with!
> 
> [KJNeely](http://kjneely.livejournal.com/)'s art piece for this challenge was inspired by [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0KTUysrwgQ), which I based one of the key scenes off - so if you want to watch it, be aware that it'll spoiler you a little for sth that happens in the first half of Part 1.
> 
> The fake Wiki articles are mine, i hope my humble attempts at providing visuals isn't too off-putting. You can also look at them [here](http://ot-mornmeril.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/636) in my LJ scrapbook.
> 
> Furthermore, I want to thank my dear friend [zeth_black](http://zeth-black.livejournal.com) for being my rock, my second pair of eyes and a generally all-around amazing friend! Pls note that I changed and edited a LOT after she last cast her eye over it, so there's prb quite a few mistakes - hopefully nothing too jarring XD.
> 
> Also, thank you so much [chosenfire28](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/) for organising this Bang and for having he patience of a saint. I hope you can forgive me and won't run the other way the next time you see my username pop up somewhere XD.
> 
> Onwards now to the apologies:
> 
> Right, so, first of all I'm eternally sorry for being absolutely, ridiculously late with posting this. I've missed both my deadline and both my amnesty dates so generously provided by the Merlin Reverse Big Bang mods - but as you can see, this thing grew into an absolute monster. It very nearly killed me, no joke.
> 
> Also I'd like to apologise to my artist, not only for being very, very late, but also for disappearing on her when I sank into my world of writing and basically ignored everything - including food, sleep and humanity at large.
> 
> I'm still not satisfied with this and there's probably a lot of things that still need more editing, but as it is, I really need to get it out there and get my life back. I just hope that you’ll get some enjoyment out of it even if it’s not as polished as I’d like it to be. If I can bring myself to look at it again at some point, I might give it another edit, then, but no promises. At the moment it rather feels like that if I ever see this story again it’ll be too soon XD.
> 
> Anyway, so much for that. Without further ado, I’ll let you get on with it and wish you happy reading :).  
> \- For further ramblings and an extensive list of references, please check the **end notes of part 3**.
> 
>  
> 
> **Important Notice concerning the vocabulary!**
> 
> I've made up A LOT of stuff in this story and I'm also using some unfamiliar words, here's a list of things I thought should be mentioned to avoid confusion:
> 
> **memograph** \- has replaced the concept of a photograph. it's used the same as pics are in our day and age, but it's more like a 3D gif.  
>  **ascender** \- my fancy word for lift  
>  **communicator** \- is the equivalent of a mobile phone  
>  **haemoscope** \- a device that analyses your blood on the spot  
>  **dermal regenerator** a device to heal your skin (from everything like dark circles to bruises and cuts)  
>  **hypo(spray)** \- a device that takes a cartridge with which then drugs are administered straight into the blood stream  
>  **zoondroid** \- like an android, but in animal form
> 
> \- If I've forgotten anything or something's unclear, pls let me know!
> 
> **Also!** I used a Korean song in one of the scenes, the link to the song including lyrics in Korean and English is given in the first line of the song, so don't be confused by the sudden language change XD.
> 
> **ETA:** The super talented [tinylilemrys](http://tinylilemrys.tumblr.com) wrote a song for this story called [Warning Signs](http://tinylilemrys.tumblr.com/post/149375789613/mornmeril-writes-tinylilemrys-its). Please listen to it and give her some love, it's beautiful and I still haven't quite recovered from the fact that it exists **!!!**

 

**Part I: Initialised**

When Arthur stumbles into Pendragon HQ, he's late for work, hungover as fuck and trying to look neither. 

The entrance hall is painfully bright, the transparent aluminium letting sunlight stream in from all sides, the dome above breaking the light into shards on the white floor. Arthur grimaces and disguises the pinch to the bridge of his nose as a gesture to push up his sunglasses. His father will have his head for this, he’s sure of it; a night of excessive partying on a work day and the knowledge that he’s once more made it to every gossip emagazine there is.

Ever since Sophia had sold him out to the reporters four years ago, the media attention on him has doubled and there’s still no sign of it abating. There are memographs of him _everywhere_ , doing the most inane things and - Arthur winces a little at the thought - of him with his friends, bar hopping and clubbing and of Arthur flailing his arms about in the way reserved for the dancing attempts of the severely drunk.

Arthur suppresses a sigh and makes his way past the fountain, the massive glass dragon looking at him with all the judgement its clear eyes can muster and even the faint trickling of the water is enough to send painful stabs through his temples.

Behind the sleek front desk, Vivian is inspecting her nails and Arthur can tell that she’s on the line with someone, despite being unable to see the tiny earpiece from over here. They exchange a glare and she turns her nose up at him, flicking the end of her elaborate hairdo over her shoulder, before pointedly tapping around on her tablet simply for the sake of looking busy. Arthur rolls his eyes and passes her without another glance. 

Off to the right, a group of tourists is inching closer, crowding around the fountain and frantically snapping memographs. Their heads turn this way and that as they whisper furiously to each other, while at the front of the group their android tour guide drones on happily, ignorant to the fact that hardly anyone is listening.

“- are now in the entrance hall of Pendragon Enterprises’ headquarters, the place where everything started,” the android is informing them in a sugary sweet voice. It grates on Arthur’s nerves and his head throbs in sympathy. He tries to pick up his pace without looking like he’s fleeing. Even so, he isn’t quick enough to avoid hearing the first part of the impromptu history lesson - things that have been ingrained into him for so long he doesn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known them.

“After leaving university, Uther Pendragon started working at Vortigen Incorporated as a hardware specialist. He rapidly climbed the ranks of the company and soon started involving himself in Vortigen’s marketing department and, through his relentless drive, was declared assistant CEO eight years after entering into the company. Within the following two years, Uther Pendragon assumed full control of Vortigen Incorporated by purchasing the last remaining shares and renamed the company Pendragon Enterprises. Far from idle, Uther Pendragon soon reveals the first QuanticBattery, an invention that, to this date, is considered to have revolutionised technology. The QuanticBattery - later increasingly referred to as the QuanticHeart - makes for the centre piece for most of Pendragon Enterprises’ products, but first and foremost in their android lines. Since its foundation, Pendragon Enterprises remains the world leader of technology, producing not only tablets, hologram projectors and communicators, but also things such as kitchen appliances, hover-cars and, of course, androids. If you would follow me into the next part of the building-”

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when the commentary finally fades into the distance as he steps into the ascender. He’s barely let himself slump against the gently thrumming wall and tapped the right number on the touchpad, when Nimueh materialises before him, just about slipping through the ascender’s closing door. 

Pristinely dressed, her dark hair pulled back into a complicated arrangement that mirrors the current fashion and armed with no less than three tablets, she looks every inch as dangerous as she is beautiful. Arthur wearily eyes the pointed gold of her heels and wonders if turning up late and hungover is enough of a reason for her to murder him. His mouth obediently stretches into his ‘Pendragon heir’ smile, fake and almost painful, but honed to perfection over the years.

“Save your charm for someone who’ll buy it,” Nimueh says, voice as sharp as her heels. “Because of you I got an earful first thing this morning. You do realise that your little excursion already made the headlines?”

Arthur’s smile never wavers, even as it freezes a little on his face as he narrows his eyes at Nimueh.

“It’s hardly anything I haven’t done before,” he says cooly.

Nimueh glares at him. “You can tell your father that when you see him,” she says, then reaches for one of the tablets and shoves it at him. He grabs it reflexively. “He wants you to start on the M-RYS line straight away and you’re not to leave before you’ve finished all the models. The release is being pushed forward.”

Arthur straightens, suddenly uninterested in continuing playing his usual part in the game he and Nimueh have become so good at these past years.

“Pushed forward?” Arthur frowns, really wishing life would give him a break just this once. “When was that decided? And why wasn’t I consulted? I’m in charge of the M-RYS project and we had a meeting about this just two days ago. I told my father that the models need at least another round of testing.”

“I’m in no position to question Uther’s orders,” Nimueh says, tone clipped. “If you want particulars you can go and talk to him about it.” Her lips quirk and there’s a familiar cruelty to the corners of her mouth. “I’m sure he’d love to see you so you can tell him about all the fun you had last night.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Arthur snaps, pressing the words out from between clenched teeth.

Nimueh looks decidedly unimpressed. She flicks careless fingers into the direction of the tablet she’d forced into Arthur’s hands.

“Send me the report as soon as you’re done. You’re in Maintenance 5,” she says, before making a point of dismissing him by turning her attention to one of the tablets still in her hands.

As if on cue, the ascender glides to a smooth stop and a dispassionate, computerised voice informs them that they’re on “Level −2, Laboratories number 01-50”. Arthur gets off, fuming, and grateful for every bit of distance he can get between him and Nimueh’s sharp tongue.

“At least send some coffee down,” he says, knowing how petulant he sounds but having run out of fucks to give.

Nimueh scowls. “I’m your father’s PA, not your servant. Get it yourself.”

Arthur bristles, but the ascender’s door slides shut before he can say anything else. 

It’s not like he isn’t used to Nimueh. She treats everyone like they’re something annoying and sticky on the sole of her shoe, but he’d been under the illusion that becoming the assistant CEO of Pendragon Enterprises would force her to at least pretend she respected him. Clearly, Nimueh doesn’t share that opinion.

Arthur has always wondered how someone like Nimueh ever ended up working for his father; her arrogance and his general prickliness don’t necessarily make for the best combination. But somehow they haven’t killed each other yet and Arthur suspects it has something to do with the fact that they’ve known each other for so long. It’s probably how Nimueh got the job in the first place, which is not to say that Nimueh isn’t good at what she does. In fact, loath as Arthur is to admit it, she’s actually frightfully competent and her success rate is impeccable.

Stopping briefly at the location board, Arthur scans it quickly for the dot with Gaius’ name and finds it flitting around in Lab 10. Destination in mind, he sets out down the corridor, sticking out sharply in his dark suit, his red tie the only splash of colour between white walls and white coats. All around him, lab-coated employees rush past, absently nodding at him.

As a software specialist, Arthur doesn’t spend a lot of time in the labs, but between having frequently visited Gaius here as a child and his father slowly integrating him into the business in his teens, people have become used to seeing him here.

Arthur has never particularly enjoyed the atmosphere down at the labs. He often has a feeling that the people here tend to forget their humanity, that they’re more than parts in the huge machine that is Pendragon Enterprises.

Pushing up the sleeves of his suit jacket and shirt, Arthur waves his wrist over the scanner by the door. The screen flashes briefly, running through the data on his chip in quick succession, displaying some basic information (Arthur Pendragon, ID AP17084139, Pendragon Enterprises - assistant CEO), before emitting a soft bleep as _cleared_ appears in bold green letters and the door before him slides open.

Lab 10 is one of the bigger labs in HQ and certainly one of the busiest.

There’s an abundance of white cabinets and dozens of screens running data on various experiments or work progresses. Behind a transparent aluminium wall off to the left, squinty-eyed scientists are peering through microscopes or measuring out variously coloured liquids in pipettes. The masks and hairnets have stripped them of any personality, blending them into figures only recognisable from the glowing name-tag on their chests. Among them, androids hurry to and fro, following orders and carrying stacks of tablets and sealed containers.

Gaius is sitting at a holo-desk and, having dragged several windows up into the air in front of him, is flicking through a list of reports. He looks up as Arthur approaches and seems entirely too unsurprised to see him, wordlessly nodding towards the closest chair. Arthur grimaces, but obediently folds into the seat.

“I assume you’re here for something to get rid of your headache,” Gaius says, waving away the holograms and getting to his feet. He fishes around in one of the wide pockets of his lab coat and emerges with a haemoscope. 

Arthur eyes it a little warily, but extends his hand without protest, anticipating the sharp little prick. He watches Gaius peering at the slim screen and suffers the disapproving look that follows.

“Your blood alcohol is still high,” Gaius says as the haemoscope vanishes into his coat once more. “I suggest that you consider restricting the wilder parties to the weekends from now on.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’ve already had it from Nimueh, no need for another round.”

Gaius raises that infamous eyebrow of his and promptly stabs Arthur with a hypospray. Arthur curses, his hand flying to the nape of his neck as he rubs at the lingering sting.

“A little warning!” he snaps, rubbing some more.

Gaius looks the picture of innocence. “Terribly sorry.”

Arthur scowls, but saves his breath. His nerves start to tingle as the hypo takes effect, a brief wave of heat washing over him and making him shudder. It sweeps away the head splintering ache in his temples and takes with it the roiling nausea that has sat in his stomach all morning. Arthur blinks, his eyes finally adjusting to the light and he lets out a relieved sigh.

Gaius, now back at his desk, folds his hands and looks at him expectantly. It’s rather unnerving, Arthur thinks, the way Gaius always seems to know when something’s up. It’s not the first time that Arthur wonders if those sharp eyes of his are actually capable of seeing right past all that skin and bones and straight into his brain. If, somehow, Gaius can trace the electro magnetic pulses there and translate them into his thoughts.

Arthur slips off his sunglasses and slides them into his breast pocket. 

“Nimueh told me my father wants to push the M-RYS launch.” He feels his forehead drawing into an unhappy frown. “Apparently he didn’t think it necessary to consult with me on this. Has he talked to you about it?”  

Gaius sighs, his expression apologetic. “I don’t know any details myself,” he says. “But I assume it has something to do with the new advertising campaign.”

Arthur presses his lips together, his jaw clenching. 

The M-RYS project is his, the first one he’s been allowed complete control over. Ever since his father first gave him the initial design and put him in charge, Arthur has vowed to himself to make him proud, to show him that he could do this on his own. Which is why, he thinks bitterly, the knowledge that his father has interfered at such a crucial stage makes it so unbearable.

“We were still having issues with the prototype last week,” Arthur says irritably, unable to hide his resentfulness as he’s unpleasantly reminded of the last time his father chose to ignore his professional opinion.

It’s like the TET-RYS line all over again.

The TET-RYS line is the series of android models preceding the M-RYS line and had first been launched when Arthur had still been in school. Since then, new models have come out almost every year, but even after several years, the TET-RYS androids are still one of Pendragon Enterprises’ biggest trademarks and sources of success. When Arthur had first started working at Pendragon Enterprises four years ago, he’d immediately been assigned to the project. 

The pressure had been positively staggering. Though not in charge of the entire TET-RYS 400X project, Arthur had been the leading software programmer on the team and the weight of his father’s expectations had been constant and unforgiving. In that time, Arthur had barely eaten and had slept even less. He’d lost weight and had sported perpetual shadows beneath his eyes that never quite seemed to fade, no matter how often he ran a dermal regenerator over them. The fact that Sophia’s betrayal had also still been fresh, the wound still bleeding despite how much Arthur denied it out loud, had only added to the mess.

As the TET-RYS line is based on the concept that each modular part of the android could be chosen by the buyer, therefore enabling consumers to put together exactly the type of model they wanted, it had been important to find a balance for the production rates of the various parts. Arthur, stressed to all hell and his temper even more volatile than usual, had gotten into an explosive argument with his uncle and then-assistant CEO, Agravaine, over the overly-rushed launch date.

Agravaine, who had been in charge of the TET-RYS 400X models, had filed a complaint with his father over Arthur’s behaviour and Uther had sided with his brother-in-law without question, telling Arthur off for being presumptuous and insolent. As soon as the models were launched, Arthur’s predictions had come true, causing a huge outrage amongst the buyers when Pendragon Enterprises had been unable to stock up on parts and leaving customers waiting for weeks until their merchandise could arrive.

Arthur’s father, ever the cunning business man, had publicly apologised, sacked Agravaine and handed out free communicators and zoondroids, placating the masses with artificially intelligent puppies and kittens. He didn’t apologise to Arthur, instead gave him Agravaine’s old position of assistant CEO and declared the case closed.

Opposite him, Gaius hums in understanding and tears Arthur from his grim reflections. 

“I sent in my full report concerning the malfunction,” Gaius says. “Including my professional opinion about the importance of further testing, but your father appears to have made up his own opinion.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he mutters, sour. Then adds, “I’ll start the final round of testing now and send you my report later today. Other than last week’s problems with the skin texture and delay in reaction, there hasn’t been anything else. Correct?”

Gaius inclines his head in confirmation. “As far as my department’s concerned, everything should be in working order.”

“Alright,” Arthur says and gets to his feet. “If there’s any more problems, I’ll send Leon down for a trouble shoot.”

Gaius nods. “I’ll await your report.”

Arthur offers a tired smile and reaches out to give Gaius’ shoulder a squeeze on his way past. “Thanks, Gaius.”

Gaius waves him off, irritated but smiling. “Off with you,” he says. “And remember what I said about those parties.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply, dodging an android on his way out.

*

Maintenance Room 5 is, compared to the labs, not all that big - especially not the first half of the room. Along the middle, a clear aluminium wall divides a row of holo-desks from a brightly lit platform. All around it the square-edged metal arms of the assembler stick out at strange angles, some rooted to the floor, some the ceiling. Across the back, the Pendragon dragon stretches across the access panels to the storage space where readily lined parts are waiting to be picked out.

Lance is already there, fingers flying over the holographic desktop and looking disgustedly well-rested.

Arthur greets him with a clap to the shoulder, before taking up position at the holo-desk next to him.

“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Arthur says as he powers it up with a touch along the side.

Lance doesn’t even bother to hide his amusement as he hands over his portable coffee maker. Arthur brushes the Pendragon logo high on the flask and the lid slides open with a quiet hissing sound, emitting the scent of freshly brewed coffee as steam puffs out. Along the outside, a display informs Arthur of the brand of coffee, the amount still within the flask and the temperature.

“Long night?” asks Lance, his attention returned to the statistics and running code before him.

Arthur ignores him briefly as he rummages through the latch in his desk and unearths a cup. Rummaging some more, he makes a small sound of triumph when he finds the last milk-tablet he’d been so sure he’d left here the last time he’d worked in Maintenance 5. He chucks it into the cup and pours coffee on top, watching it fizz as the tablet dissolves, colouring the liquid a light brown.

“As if you don’t know it,” Arthur says, handing back the flask. “I can’t believe you ditched me and left me at the mercy of Percy and Elena! They barely got me home in time to get ready for work.”

Lance flicks his fingers, sending one of the windows before him flying off to the side to close it and bringing up a different one in its place.

“I warned you, you didn’t listen - as usual. So don’t blame it on me.” He pinches the air above one of the depictions of an M-RYS android on the flat of his desktop and drags it upwards into a hologram. “Meeting Elena really hasn’t done anything to rein in Percy’s love for excess. Or yours, for that matter.”

Arthur glares at him. “Yes, yes,” he grumbles into the cup. “We all know how noble and virtuous you are.”

Lance snorts. “Hardly,” he says. “Just not stupid enough to get pissed on a work night and do it in a way that once more ends with my drunk mug all over the internet.”

Arthur makes a face. “I’m hoping for the day when they finally get tired of taking my memograph at every waking moment.” He flicks through some data, then brings up his main window running the code for the software.

The mention of his never-ending fight with the media suddenly makes Sophia’s presence hover between them like a dark cloud of foreboding. But Arthur has long since gotten used to trying to kill it with stony silence and Lance is far too empathic not to pick up on it. Lance is his best friend, the best anyone could have in Arthur’s opinion, but even so Arthur has never been able to talk about it, not even with him. And really, he tells himself firmly, there isn’t anything to talk _about._

And there isn’t.

He’d been young and so, _so_ stupid and Sophia had been clever, beating him in a game Arthur hadn’t been aware they were playing. She’d sold him out and left, end of story.

Lance must know what he’s thinking about, but thankfully he doesn’t bring it up. All Arthur wants is to forget it ever happened, but every time he opens one of his news feeds, someone has dragged it all back into the open once more. A mention in passing, one of those damnable quotes of Sophia’s that everyone so loves to sprinkle into their articles - _“Arthur Pendragon is a very troubled man. He doesn’t want anyone to know, of course, but I know how unstable he really is. I tried to help, but I’m not sure I was ever in any position to - I’m no professional, after all. But I can’t say I’m surprised, really, what with his terrible relationship with his father and never having known his mother. Not to mention his sister…”_  

Arthur clamps down on the thought, doing his best to banish the words burned forever into his mind. People must know the whole bloody thing by heart by now, considering the amount of times it has been taken apart and discussed and quoted and re-quoted.

“It’s your devilish good looks,” Lance says, breaking through Arthur’s gloom and flashing him a smile despite the minute tenseness at the corners of his mouth. “People can’t get enough of you.”

Arthur gratefully jumps at the chance to get rid of his maudlin thoughts.

“Naturally,” he says, managing a quirk of his lips. “I’m devastating. Also, sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” He turns his attention back to his holo-desk. “Are we ready to begin?”

Lance tabs at his desktop and the metal arms beyond the transparent aluminium wall whirr to life. “All systems go.”

Arthur skims the code one last time, before nodding to himself. “Computer, start initialisation process of project M-RYS, authorisation code AP17084139.”

“Code accepted, good morning Mr Pendragon,” the familiar female voice of his personalised computer, Elba, answers pleasantly. “Project M-RYS active; initialisation process in progress. The machines are ready and at your disposal, sir.”

Arthur leans back in his chair. “Proceed.”

“Assembling parts of M-RYS model serial number MRC874001B,” Elba says. “Number of products queued, 99. Estimated time of completion, 23:00 hours.”

“Lovely,” Arthur mutters darkly.

*

With no windows to connect him to the outside world, and the bright fluorescence as his only source of light, the hours stretch endlessly before him. The two dots between the numbers forming the time in the right corner of his holo-desk blink at him in a steady rhythm, seeing him through the morning, then the afternoon. At lunchtime, Arthur had sent Lance off into a break and he’d returned with a salad for Arthur. They’d already topped up the flask at least five times, holding it beneath the spout in the corner next to the glass dispenser and filling it with fresh water, making it hum quietly each time it made a batch of fresh coffee.

Having thrown a few differently coloured flavouring capsules into his salad, Arthur had taken the time to speak with his PA, Leon, as he’d mixed the leaves, the capsules bursting with the motion and coating the salad with a dressing. Leon, his face floating in a window off to Arthur’s left, had informed Arthur of the state of his inbox and asked about the rescheduling of a few appointments. Arthur had cursed a lot and worked out a new schedule, all the while shoving forkfuls of salad into his mouth.

By the time his food was gone, so was Leon, and Arthur had been back to watching model after model being assembled and readied before him, his focus fixed to the rapidly forming code he’d dragged up before him from his desk and rattling off the same questions and commands over and over and over again. Arthur knows that Lance had stayed mostly to keep him company and - mother hen that he is - fed and watered, but there’d hardly been any reason for him to stay. As a software implementer, Lance’s job had already been concluded the minute the software seamlessly connected with the hardware. The remaining testing is completely up to Arthur as the leading software specialist and head of the project. So when the time on his holo-desk had flickered from 19:59 to 20:00, Arthur had shooed Lance out of the room and told him to go home.

That had been over two hours ago.

“Assembling parts of M-RYS model serial number MRC874092B,” Elba informs him, snapping Arthur from where his head had been threatening to impact with the surface of his desk.

Bleary-eyed and with his chin resting in the curve of his palm, Arthur blinks heavily and finds the assembler in the process of picking up yet another familiar head and carrying it to the matching torso. The face of the model is impassive in its pre-initialised state and its bright blue eyes are still hidden behind smooth lids. 

As opposed to the TET-RYS line, the M-RYS androids don’t vary in appearance. His father had made it clear that he doesn’t want yet another line with different parts clogging up the factories. The latest TET-RYS model, 800X, would still be available, interchangeable parts and all, but the first M-RYS models all look the same; a slim, long limbed young man, his appearance unthreatening and his expression earnest. Unlike the smooth perfection of the TET-RYS line, the M-RYS model is made to look more real, more…human. Uther, who’d been in charge of the initial design, had made it clear that he wants the model to appeal to people on a different level than the TET-RYS line and Arthur, his eyes flickering to the already finished models on the conveyer belt off to the side, knows they have succeeded.

The designers and scientists have outdone themselves and even though Arthur has seen every stage of the model, has seen nothing _but_ the model for hours on end - its image seared so firmly into his mind that he’s sure he could trace every line of its face and body blind - Arthur can’t quite suppress a sense of pride every time a model is completed.

“Powering up of model MRC874092B,” Elba says as code starts pouring onto Arthur’s screen. Arthur blinks again and forces himself to focus. He regrets not having gone to the labs for another hypo in his brief lunch break. Gaius wouldn’t have liked it, but he would’ve given Arthur a pick-me-up if he’d asked for it. At least then he wouldn’t be struggling not to fall asleep. “The model is ready for testing, Mr Pendragon.”

Behind the clear wall, the assembler is welding one of the neck pieces into place and Arthur briefly rubs at his eyes, before launching into the same process he had already done over 90 times today.

“Can you hear me?” Arthur asks, the words tasting too familiar on his tongue. He’s sick of them by now.

The eyes of the model snap open, almost startled. Arthur frowns a little, but when he scans the code on his screen, nothing seems to be amiss. He shakes his head at himself. What he needs is a good night’s sleep.

“Yes,” the model says with the same smooth voice as all the others before.

The code multiplies once more and Arthur leans back in his chair, putting up his legs as he goes and sighing a little with relief.

“ID,” he says and even to his own ears it sounds bored.

“MRC874092B.”

Arthur leans his head back, sinking deeper into the upholstery. The whirring of the assembler’s arms is familiar, soothing. The metal arms flit around, each of them following their own set of tasks - welding, cooling, prodding.

“Can you move your head?” Arthur asks and the model complies, turning its head first to the right, then the left. The back-head and neck pieces are still missing and Arthur can see shiny metal and bright blue tubes. They are hidden a moment later, when the assembler puts the next piece into place. Arthur absently taps a blunt nail against the ring on his right index finger.

“Your eyes now,” Arthur adds, his gaze flickering between the code and the model’s blue irises. Satisfied, Arthur addresses Elba so she can tick the appropriate virtual box on his check-list. “Cervical and optical animation checked.” 

Behind the wall, the model’s eyes are still moving, as if searching where Arthur’s voice is coming from. The partition, after all, is only transparent on one side, making it impossible for the model to see him. Arthur tries to remember if any of the other models has done the same, but the code still reads clear and Arthur can’t, for the life of him, drag up anything through the hazy fog of sleepiness, one test having blended into another and making it impossible to separate them.

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, and shakes himself out of it. “Now give me your initialisation text.”

The model straightens, suddenly looking perfectly bland as it smiles, bright and fake as its been programmed to do.

“Hello, I’m a first generation M-RYS android of Pendragon Enterprises,” it recites clearly, seemingly unaware as the assembler’s arms keep whizzing about it. An arm is fixed into place, blue muscles flaring slightly upon being connected to the torso, then quickly disappearing between white panels; sparks are raining down as metal is welded into place. And all the while, its QuanticHeart beats out a steady rhythm. “I can look after your house, do the cooking and take care of your children. I organise your appointments and I speak 300 languages. I’m entirely at your disposal as a sexual partner; no need to feed me or recharge me. I’m equipped with a QuanticHeart that makes me autonomous for 201 years. Do you want to give me a name?”

Arthur shifts, un-crosses and re-crosses his legs. “For the purpose of this test, your name is _Test Model 92_.”

The model looks at him, but for some reason, Arthur looks away, something strange prickling against the back of his neck and making the small hairs there stand on end.

“Test Model 92,” it’s almost a question, but Arthur pretends it isn’t.

“Initialisation and memorisation checked,” he says firmly, watching the code run smoothly. “Can you move your arms?” 

Test Model 92 looks bewildered, as though the notion that it has limbs hasn’t occurred to it before and Arthur is definitely seeing things. He needs to finish this and go _home_ , bloody hell. Pale skin spreads over fingers and wrists, all the way to the shoulders, growing closed over the metal; every additional inch bringing the android this much closer to looking human.

Arthur checks the code, then looks up through his fringe and watches Test Model 92 touching the freshly grown skin on his forearms, a look of wonder on its face.

“Upper limb connection checked,” he says automatically and, as his lips form the next words, words he’s said on endless repeat today, Arthur feels, for a split second, more like a machine than the android before him. Gods, he needs to sleep. “Now say something in German.”

Bright blue eyes look back at him, back to mindless obedience. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief.

“Guten Tag, ich bin ein M-RYS Android der ersten Generation, hergestellt von Pendragon Enterprises,” Test Model 92 rattles off, then looks down as the assembler attaches its legs.

Next to the coding window, where the transcript of the testing process is being shown - complete with sound waves and ready to be attached to the report for the current model - the German sentence glows green, a sign that the model has recited it correctly. Below it, a translation is added. Arthur has been switching the languages around, one small indulgence to at least break through some of the monotony. 

“Now say it in modern Greek.”

“Έμαι ένα ανδροειδές της σειράς M-RYS της εταιρείας Pendragon Enterprises.”

Once more, the sentence glows green and Arthur pushes back his fringe as he moves to the next step. “Good, now sing something in Korean.”

 There’s a pause, code running rapidly in the corner of Arthur’s eye as the android sifts through its not inconsiderable hard drive and picks a song in the language Arthur had requested.

“[별이 유난히도 밝은](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=paAJ1JBjJ9o),” the android starts singing, intonation crystal clear, it’s voice velvety soft and hitting each note perfectly, just as all the models have been programmed to. 

“오늘 이 시간이 가면

그대 떠난다는 말이

나를 슬프게 하네 

이 밤 다 가도록”

As the last note fades and the air is once more filled solely with the whirring of the assembler, Arthur can’t help but think that something about this particular rendition had sounded almost…mournful. Far more emotional than any programming could’ve achieved, not even Arthur’s own. But still, the readings come up clean and Arthur clears his throat, banishing his strange thoughts and re-focusing on his task.

“Multilingual verbal expression checked,” he says as the assembler finally puts the android on its own two feet. It looks down, then back up in Arthur’s direction as though in askance. Arthur smiles, tired and altogether unintentional. “Go ahead, take a few steps.”

And Test Model 92 does, balancing slightly unsurely for a moment, before finding its footing and walking a little closer to the partition. The model is closer now, right behind the transparent wall and when it smiles, bright and sudden, Arthur’s breath hitches a little. He clears his throat, again.

“Locomotion checked,” he croaks, looking at the stream of code and refusing to look as Test Model 92 returns to the platform, its skin now covering its entire body.

When Arthur next peers up, a shock of dark hair has sprouted from its scalp and the android is looking skywards, as if trying to look at the sudden addition. Test Model 92 touches it gingerly and Arthur forcefully clamps down on his initial reaction. He flicks through some windows, unseeing and carefully casual, checks the readings one last time before declaring the test complete.

“Testing of model MRC874092B complete,” he says to Elba, before addressing Test Model 92. “You’re ready for work.”

The android blinks at him and Arthur very firmly tells himself that he doesn’t find it adorable. Not at all.

“What’s going to happen to me now?” Test Model 92 asks as the assembler drapes a deep blue robe over the android. It eyes it, a little warily, before obediently slipping his arms through the sleeves.

Arthur scans its face, but still can’t quite remember if any of the other models had reacted the same. Surely he’d remember if they had?

“I’ll re-initialise you,” he says slowly, not taking his eyes off the android. “And then you’ll be sent to one of our shops to be sold.”

“Sold?” Test Model 92 asks, and is it only Arthur’s sleep deprivation or does its voice actually lilt, inching just the tiniest octave higher as though in shock. “Am I…I’m a sort of merchandise? Is that right?”

Arthur frowns. “Of course you’re merchandise. You’re our newest android model.” His eyes flicker to the coding, still open and displaying the last set of readings. The transcription window has been closed by Elba upon Arthur’s confirmation of the testing being complete. But he keeps the code window open, keeps it floating before him and watches a few new lines appear.

“Oh, I see,” Test Model 92 says, soft and a little lost. “I-I thought-”

The readings flicker and Arthur’s head snaps up. “Thought?” he asks, incredulous. “What did you think?”

The android looks straight at him, eyes impossibly blue. “I thought I was alive.”

There is a thump as Arthur’s legs slide off the holo-desk, his feet hitting the floor as Arthur lurches forward in his seat. 

“ _What?_ ” he hisses, his eyes snapping to the code and seeing line after line of red suddenly appearing. Error, the code informs Arthur, error, error.

“What the fuck,” Arthur swears at the projections in front of him, fingers already flying over the holo-desk, opening window after window - some on the desktop, some in the air around him.

“Error in the protocol,” Elba says right over Arthur’s cursing. “Memory components displaying unusual readings.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Arthur snaps irritably, the red of the code stinging his tired eyes. They feel gritty, burning even as he blinks and disperses some of the wetness that has built there in protest of Arthur’s treatment of them since last night.

“What’s going on?” Test Model 92 asks, a trace of panic in its voice. Arthur clenches his teeth and ignores it.

“Defective model,” Elba continues. “Permission to disassemble and check required components.”

Arthur hisses out a breath and slams his hand down on his holo-desk, angry and overwhelmed but refusing to admit it. His ring clacks against the transparent aluminium, the noise drowned out the hectic atmosphere.

“Permission granted.”

The assembler’s arms, idle since having completed their job, shoot up suddenly, whirring almost aggressively as they tear the blue robe from Test Model 92’s form. The android jumps and shies away from the metal arms.

“Disassemble me?” he asks, sounding scared. “But why?” He looks towards Arthur, pleading.

Arthur clenches his hands to fists. “You’re not supposed to think that sort of stuff,” he says, jaw tight. “You’re not supposed to think _at all_. There must be a defective piece or software problem somewhere.” _I made a mistake_ , is what he doesn’t say. _This is my first time in charge and I fucked it up._

The assembler reattaches itself to Test Model 92’s spine, yanking it backwards and returning it to its initial position over the platform, five feet above the floor. The android yelps slightly and looks around, frantic. Its pale skin starts to recede, the growth process reversed as the assembler starts the disassembling process.

“No!” Test Model 92 says, almost shouts. “No, there’s no mistake! I feel perfectly fine, I assure you. I thought I passed all your tests correctly?”

The hair is gone now, the assembler’s arms trying to take off the first panel, but the android is batting at them, trying to evade it.

“Yes,” Arthur says tightly. “But your behaviour is non-standard.”

Finally succeeding in having caught Test Model 92’s wrists, the assembler rids it off its chest piece, revealing the wildly thumping QuanticHeart beneath. Arthur stares at it, transfixed. More red fills the coding window. Arthur blinks and blinks again, trying to get rid of the colours dancing in front of his vision. Red, blue, red, blue. He pushes his fingers into his eye-sockets.

“Please!” Test Model 92 begs, frantic. “ _Please_ don’t disassemble me!”

Arthur bows his head. “I’m sorry,” he says.

In the background, the QuanticHeart throbs on, drowning out the whirring of the machines and forming a straight line to Arthur’s temples. Something inside him twists painfully.

“Please, don’t do this!” Test Model 92 pleads, its bright eyes pinning Arthur in place. They look wet, artificial tear ducts spilling over, triggered by the android’s obvious distress. Arthur’s chest is tight now, almost too tight to breathe. “I’ll do whatever you want, I promise! Please don’t kill me!” 

The choice of words takes the last of Arthur’s breath and he stares at Test Model 92 through the partition, sees its tears and its hectic heart and there’s no way, no way Arthur can go through with this. He slaps down his hand before he even knows what he’s doing.

“Abort,” he says sharply. “ _Abort_.”

The assembler freezes.

Test Model 92 is still in the air, missing an arm and both legs, its eyes wide and its face streaked with artificial tears. It’s the most real thing Arthur has seen in a long, long time.

“Disassembling process aborted,” Elba says and Arthur takes a huge, gulping breath. His own heart, he realises, has matched itself to the android’s and Arthur gives himself a moment to calm down, relieved when he sees the QuanticHeart slowing alongside his own.

“Reassemble model,” Arthur says finally, voice slightly raw.

“Model defective,” Elba says. “Should reassembling process be initiated despite failed testing?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirms and whatever had clenched inside his chest before finally releases when the assembler slowly starts moving once more, now rebuilding what it had torn apart only moments before.

As he watches the blue robe once more enfolding Test Model 92’s body, Arthur has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, doesn’t even know if it’s the _right_ thing to do - but what he _does_ know, is that it’s the only thing he could’ve done.

*

The icy night air is akin to a slap in Arthur’s face.

His communicator reads 23:37 hours and Arthur feels like a criminal as he sticks close to the shadows, one arm extended backwards to indicate the hooded figure behind him to do the same. His hover-car is the last one in the garage and he waves his right hand at it, where his chip is fastened on a bracelet around his wrist. The car’s lights flare to life, two beacons in the dimness.

Arthur opens the back door and ushers the blue-robed figure inside. It - no, _he_ , Arthur might as well acknowledge the gender if he’s to spend some time with it - lifts his head, peering at Arthur with his bright blue eyes, before the door closes. Arthur briefly pinches the bridge of his nose, then rounds the car and gets in behind the wheel. The dashboard lights up as it recognises the proximity of Arthur’s chip.

“Authorisation confirmed. Good evening, Mr Pendragon,” Elba’s voice greets him through the speakers. The car gives the tiniest of trembles as it rises into the air. “Environmental controls active, navigation and security systems online. Awaiting destination input.”

“Home,” Arthur says absently, glancing upwards into the rearview mirror as the seatbelt snakes around his chest and middle.

“Destination accepted, route confirmed,” Elba says. “Your car is ready for departure.”

Arthur taps the reverse button on the side-dash and puts his foot on the gas. The hover car slides back smoothly and Arthur turns the wheel, then taps on the side-dash once more to put the car into regular drive mode and waits for the sliding doors in front of him to open. As soon as the gap is big enough, Arthur puts down his foot and the car shoots forward and out into the night.

It smoothly slots into place on the glowing hover-track and when Arthur is certain they are steady, he snaps “Auto-pilot”.

“Auto-pilot active,” Elba confirms. “You can now release manual controls.”

Arthur lets go of the wheel and turns in his seat, finally facing the figure in the back. Test Model 92 peers back at him curiously.

“That’s handy,” he comments, nodding into the direction of the brightly lit dashboard.

Arthur frowns, his eyes scanning the android’s face as if that alone is enough to reveal what’s gone wrong. This type of malfunction is unlike any Arthur has ever seen before. His fingers are itching to connect the model to his personal computer at home and run each and every test known to man. He knows, though, that that would have to wait at least another day. He needs to sleep and he needs it badly. No doubt tomorrow things will look much clearer. Maybe he’ll even be able to correct the malfunction by tomorrow night and return the model to Pendragon HQ in time to be shipped out.

“There’s definitely something wrong with the connection to your hard drive,” Arthur mutters, absently tapping the backrest of his seat. “You should have immediate access to all the information we programmed into you. You don’t recognise what this is?” He waves a vague hand about the space of the car.

Test Model 92 follows Arthur’s gesture, his eyes flickering over the upholstery, the shining dashboards, the glowing wheel, before finally coming to rest on Arthur once more. Something in his gaze has shifted, however, making it look less alert, somehow more…artificial. 

“A hover-car, model YX900, manufactured by Pendragon Enterprises,” Test Model 92 rattles off the details, then blinks as though waking from a trance, his eyes now once more lacking the customary flatness that no type of genius programming has managed to erase yet. If Arthur can work out what caused this, then the next line of androids will be a breakthrough unlike any other.

“So it’s not that they can’t be accessed, but that there’s some form of delay,” Arthur muses aloud.

Test Model 92 isn’t listening. He’s scooted over towards the window and is peering outside, the reflection of millions of lights from the city around them reflecting in his eyes.

“Is this Camelot?” he asks.

Arthur follows his gaze automatically, taking in the familiar sight. Dozens of hover-tracks criss-cross each other on various levels, bracketed in by high rise buildings on each side. They’re slowly leaving the business district and the shape of the buildings is gradually starting to change, a few less holo-adverts dancing across high polished facades.

“Yes,” Arthur says.

Test Model 92 turns his head and looks at Arthur. “Why did you take me with you? Why not leave me there?”

Arthur releases the air in his lungs on a heavy breath. “I want to put you through a few more tests. You’re the only model that’s shown any problems and I want to be sure what the malfunction is before I report it. My father wants to launch the M-RYS line by the end of the month and…” he trails off, suddenly aware that the words _I don’t want to disappoint him_ are a little too honest to be spoken aloud.

“I see,” Test Model 92 says, soft, and looks back out the window. Arthur marvels at the expressiveness of his face and eyes. “So, do you want to give me a name?”

Arthur starts a little and throws the android a bewildered look. “What?”

Test Model 92 pins him with his blue, blue eyes. “Well, you can’t keep calling me _Test Model 92_ , now can you? So, what do you want to call me?”

Arthur rubs at his bottom lip, his ring cool as it touches his skin, and frowns a little. A name.

He’s not sure what makes him say what he does next, but tonight appears to be a night full of foolish impulses.

“What would you like to be called?” he asks, then adds, instinctively. “What’s your name?”

The android blinks, then smiles and it’s bright and earnest and heart-stoppingly real.

“Merlin,” he says, then. “My name is Merlin.”

*

In the past few hundred years, buildings have only become higher, the lights brighter. 

Especially in capitols such as Camelot, it seems as though everything is stretching towards stars that are no longer visible, long since swallowed by the endless light pollution and replaced by the city’s lights reflected in every sleek, metal surface. Below - where the hover-tracks don’t reach and people still tread on the ground instead of elevated footpaths - the faint pin-pricks of lanterns can be seen. Arthur, who’s never been outside the city and knows the stars only from holograms and ebooks, often imagines them to be like this - tiny and out of his reach. Sometimes Arthur wonders about the world that was before, where the stars had still been up instead of below and where the people still cared to look for them. Now, Arthur often feels like the only one looking down, down where no one else bothers to look. It seems no one cares that the stars have since fallen from the sky and are now scattered beneath them. 

Arthur’s penthouse is towards the western edge of the city, so close to the sea that on a clear day Arthur can smell salt and see where sky meets water. In the east, past where the White Mountains have long since been flattened to make more room for the city to expand, the business and entertainment districts stand out in their blinding brightness - Camelot’s heart, pulsating and full of colours.

Parking the hover-car in the garage on the roof, Arthur heaves himself out of his seat, the door lowering itself back down once he’s made it out. Merlin watches him silently and follows Arthur as they enter the ascender to the penthouse. Lights flicker on as they step into the hall, triggered by Arthur’s chip, though even without them, the flat is far form dark even at this hour - the hover-tracks and city lights ever present.

As Arthur rids himself first of his shoes, then his coat, Elba’s disembodied voice greets them once again.

“Welcome home, Mr Pendragon,” she says and next to him Merlin jumps a little in surprise. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, then turns away to shrug out of his suit jacket and give his tie a vicious but satisfying yank.

When he turns back, Merlin has taken a few tentative steps towards the main living room. He looks alien in Arthur’s space, a dark blue shadow standing out between Arthur’s light coloured furniture and backdropped by Camelot’s skyline stretching out across the clear aluminium walls.

“All systems online. Room temperature is at 24°C and it is 00:18 hours. Do you wish to lock up?” Ebla asks.

Arthur rubs at his aching eyes, his voice muffled by his palms. “All doors on lockdown,” he confirms tiredly.

Merlin turns to him, his hood casting half of his face in shadow and his bare feet barely visible from underneath the hem of his robe. They look pale and somehow fragile against the polished floor of Arthur’s flat.

“She’s everywhere,” Merlin says, a little incredulous, glancing upwards as though expecting to find Elba hanging from the ceiling. “Does she control everything?”

Arthur, having dropped everything where he stands, rolls his shoulders and steps past Merlin.

“Not everything,” he says curtly, crossing the room with Merlin trailing in his wake. His bare feet barely make a sound. “It’s easier to only have one computer in charge, otherwise you’d have to constantly sync everything.” He stops and rounds on Merlin, who takes a hasty step back at Arthur’s glare. “I’m going to have a shower,” Arthur says, then raises a finger at him. “You stay here. Just,” The extended finger becomes an imperious wave of his hand. “Don’t touch anything.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows at him, looking far too human. Arthur doesn't wait for a reply, simply turns and stumbles into the direction of the bathroom.

He passes through his bedroom without paying attention, shedding the rest of his clothes as he makes his way towards his en suite.

The bathroom, just like everything else in Arthur’s flat, is wide and uncluttered.

There’s a sink above a low cupboard holding towels and other small utilities, a bathtub set into the transparent aluminium wall and a shower with an extra wide forcefield in the middle. Off to the side of the sink, a discreet panel separates the toilet from the rest of the room.

Arthur opts out of a regular shower, instead choosing the sonic function, too tired to be bothered with drying off afterwards. The central underfloor heating is pleasant against the bare soles of his feet and he almost falls asleep right there, standing up and with his hand braced against the shower. It’s silent apart from the low humming of the sonic setting and Arthur can feel some of the tense muscles in his shoulders loosening, when a sudden crashing sound from the kitchen suddenly cuts though the stillness like a gunshot. Arthur’s eyes snap open and his head jerks up.

Cursing, he shuts off the shower and grabs the first thing he finds, which happens to be his red dressing gown. 

In the hallway off the kitchen, a vase lies shattered on the floor, the shards glinting in-between the water capsules that had kept the flowers hydrated. 

“What the-” Arthur starts, then looks at Merlin's sheepish expression. “ _Mer_ lin!”

Merlin, his hood finally off and pooling between his shoulders, throws his hands up, palms out - if in defence or surrender, Arthur isn't sure. 

“I just wanted to know if they're real!”

Arthur feels his temples throb. “Of course they're real!”

“I know that _now_ ,” Merlin says indignantly, then pushes on, clearly defensive. “But how was I supposed to know that? Almost everything else is fake - even the fish!” He points an accusing finger at the aquarium separating the kitchen from the living area. 

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders if he’ll wear grooves into his skin after having done little else all day. “Did I, or did I not tell you not to touch anything?”

Merlin folds his arms, sticking his hands into the wide sleeves of the robes, and meets Arthur's gaze rebelliously. “I got bored.”

“Bored!” Arthur bursts out, incredulous. “You’re an android, you're not supposed to get bored!”

Merlin narrows his eyes at him. "Well, I'm sorry that my feelings have inconvenienced you, your highness!"

“I’m not royalty!”

“No,” Merlin says airily, but there’s a cutting edge to it. “You just act like you are.”

Arthur sputters. “I’m-”

“A prat,” Merlin cuts in. “I got that.”

Arthur stares at him, aghast. “You can't talk to me like that!”

“And why not?”

“Why-” Arthur starts, then takes a deep breath to stop himself from shouting. “Merlin, you're a _computer_ , you're supposed to do as you're told and, above all, you're supposed to show some respect!”

“I don't see how that's fair,” Merlin says, unwavering. 

Arthur throws his arms up. “This isn't _about_ fairness!”

Merlin pushes at one of the water capsules with his toe. “Well it should be. There's no need to be a dick about it, human or no. Maybe it’s _you_ that needs to learn some respect!”

Arthur stares at him for another moment, Merlin's words ringing unpleasantly in his ears. Then he does the only thing he feels capable of at the moment, and turns to go, once more leaving Merlin standing there. 

“Where are you going?” Merlin calls after him, sounding every bit as though he isn't finished. Too bad. 

“To bed,” Arthur says without stopping. “Clean up your mess. And if you break anything else, I will put you on standby.”

“Standby?” Merlin says incredulously. "You can't just switch me off because you don't like what I have to say!"

"Watch me,” Arthur barks over his shoulder.

Merlin doesn't reply to that and Arthur jabs a finger against the touchpad of his bedroom door, making it slide shut with a hissing sound of finality. 

*

When Arthur stumbles out of bed the next morning and mumbles the order that turns the aluminium wall in his bedroom clear once more, it’s still dark outside. No surprise at this time of the year, but even so - Arthur is used to getting up at the crack of dawn, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Still half asleep and clad only in his baggy sleeping pants, Arthur trudges out into the hall and into the kitchen; all sleek, impersonal lines and every counter spotless, white and almost mirror-like. Arthur hasn’t cooked in it once - except if you call microwaving foodpackets cooking. 

The bluish glow of the aquarium reflects off the polished floor and mingles with the city lights outside. There is no need for additional light, despite the still dark sky outside, so Arthur has programmed it to remain turned off, unwilling to squint his way through his morning routine and instead preferring to wake up slowly.

It’s rare that he manages to make it through the night without waking up and the long hours of sleep have left him strangely dazed, his thoughts not quite as sharp edged as Arthur is used to. To this day, Arthur knows only of two ways to battle his insomnia; one is a hypospray filled with drugs to force him under - which never fails to make him feel lethargic and his head as though it’s been stuffed with cotton - and the second is excessive partying and enough alcohol to carry him over the line into complete inebriation. Neither are methods he likes to employ too often, but if he does, the latter usually wins out in the end.

Too lazy to switch on his high end coffee machine, Arthur instead grabs his portable coffee maker and switches it on. His movements are slow and automatic - flavouring capsules, water. While the flask whirrs quietly and the numbers indicating the temperature inside are climbing, Arthur absently taps around on one of the holographic counter tops. To his right, virtual clouds are gathering and a few snowflakes are billowing around the −15°C indicating the temperature. Arthur makes a face. He’s never been too fond of the cold.

He sweeps through the morning news articles, while his personal feeds have been rapidly multiplying to his left. He ignores them all, unwilling to read all the simpering emails which range from anything like asking him for a meeting or free gifts to having his babies. Most of them, Arthur knows, are reporters in disguise, trying to wheedle information about both his private and professional life from him. But Arthur has made that mistake once before and though he keeps telling himself that the wound from Sophia’s betrayal has long since healed, the scar is raw and fresh and best left untouched.

“Sleep well?”

Arthur jumps, graceless and sudden, hitting his knee against the counter and hissing out a curse. He whirls around.

“ _Merlin_!”

Merlin gives him the same sheepish smile as last night when Arthur had found him between shards of glass. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. You okay?”

Arthur glares at him, then looks him up and down carefully. The blue robe is still in place, but Merlin must’ve washed his feet, because the few dark smudges on his toes that walking around without shoes had left are gone. It’s a surprisingly considerate thing to do.

“What have you been up to all night?” Arthur asks suspiciously. 

Considering that he’d left Merlin alone for barely ten minutes last night and he’d managed to break something, Arthur’s wary to learn what has happened while he’s been asleep.

Merlin shrugs and steps closer, slouching against the counter next to Arthur.

“Reading, mostly,” he says, his eyes flickering over the counters before coming to rest on Arthur once more. “You’ve got quite the collection of ebooks.”

Arthur crosses his arms. “You sound surprised.”

Merlin snags one of the clouds from the weather report and starts playing with it. “Didn’t have you down as someone who enjoys reading, that’s all.”

Arthur frowns and is about to ask what that’s supposed to mean, when the coffee maker bleeps. He presses his lips together and turns away to grab the flask.

“Pass me a cup,” Arthur orders, absently. “In the cupboard to your right.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Merlin shooting him a look, before complying. As soon as Merlin’s hand comes close enough, the cupboard door slides open, the sensor inside having detected the movement. Merlin reaches past it, grabs the closest cup and wordlessly passes it over.

Arthur chucks a milk tablet in and pours the coffee, blinking when hot steam billows up into his face. The display along the side of the cup flares to life, warning Arthur of the temperature, two numbers glaring at him in bright red. Underneath, in a far more neutral colouring, the type of coffee is listed and a box that reads ‘dairy’ has been ticked.

When he turns, Merlin’s right there, close enough for Arthur to feel his artificial breathing on his face; warm and neutral. Arthur looks away.

“What’s going to happen now?” Merlin asks softly.

Arthur gives his cup an unnecessary swirl. 

“Now, I’ll get ready for work,” he says. “And while I’m gone, you’ll tidy my bedroom, clean the flat, sort through my private emails and order a new vase to replace the one you’ve broken.”

Merlin gapes at him. “What?” 

Arthur takes a sip. “You heard me.”

“I’m not doing that!”

“Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, as though speaking to someone particularly slow witted. “I think you’ve missed a very important point here. _I’m_ the one giving the orders, and _you’re_ here to follow them. If I’m supposed to find out what’s wrong with you, I need to test you.”

“Is that right?” Merlin says, the same rebellious fire in his eyes as the night before. “Is there a check-list, then? Treat Merlin like a servant - check, be a prat about it - check-”

“Merlin,” Arthur says sharply, cutting into Merlin’s tirade. “ _Shut up_.”

“Yes, _Sire_.” Merlin rolls his eyes.

Arthur clenches his jaw. “Just do what I told you. And when I’m back I’ll hook you up to my computer.” _And find out what the fuck’s going on_ , he doesn’t say. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t break anything else!”

*

Arthur has barely cleared the garage when Leon calls him, flooding Arthur with to-do lists and letting him know that his father wants to see him first thing to discuss the details about the M-RYS launch. Arthur retaliates with a to-do list of his own and some instructions in preparation for some of his meetings.

Usually Leon refrains from ambushing him like this, but Arthur prefers it to being swamped as soon as he steps into the building. At least this way he has a chance of working things out _before_ he reaches HQ and doesn’t have to pretend not to be stressed when in reality he can already feel grey hairs growing from his temples.

As opposed to yesterday, Arthur is blissfully early and manages to clear the entrance hall before the first tourist groups have the chance to infiltrate HQ and take endless memographs of that bloody fountain. Pendragon Enterprises is the technology market leader, and then there’s people getting fixated on a glass dragon, when all one needs to do is to type _dragon_ into any search bar and their fountain is the number one hit, right after the encyclopaedia entry _dragon (extinct reptile)_.

Taking the ascender to the very top, Arthur quickly reviews the reports that he sent last night a final time, before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders.

“Ah, Arthur,” his father says in way of greeting, looking up at Arthur, unsmiling. Arthur’s stomach twists. “I see you have remembered the way to my office.”

Arthur clears his throat. “My apologies, father, I was quite busy yesterday-”

“Yes,” his father interrupts smoothly. “I imagine so. I received your reports on the M-RYS models. It was good work, but I expected no less. Especially after the liberties you allowed yourself.”

Arthur’s knuckles are white, his fingers digging painfully into his tablet. “I’m sorry, father.”

Uther steeples his hands atop the desk, his fingers framed by glowing reports and news feeds.

“All I ask is that your work doesn’t suffer and that you uphold the image of our family name, that is all,” he says. “But I didn’t call you here to discuss your rampant life style.” He shifts in his floating chair. “I trust Nimueh has relayed the change of schedule concerning the M-RYS launch.”

Arthur clenches his jaw, nodding. 

“She did,” he says, tilting his chin defiantly. “But might I ask why I wasn’t included in the initial decision? The M-RYS project was assigned to me and I’ve been in charge of its progress. We’ve had several issues with the models last week, pushing the launch isn’t something I’d advise. Gaius-”

“Yes, yes.” Uther waves him off, dismissive. “I read through his concerns, but I don’t see how this is going to affect the launch date I’ve set.”

“Father,” Arthur says, barely keeping the strain from his voice. “Rushing the launch is a bad idea. We should put the models through another round of testing, at least.”

His father fixes him with a glare.

“According to your reports, there were no problems with the models when you ran them through the final testing phase yesterday,” he says, his voice as stony as his face - and was that a trace of suspicion in his eyes? “Is that correct?”

Arthur thinks about typing in hacks with slightly trembling hands, of erasing and manipulating data to cover his tracks. He thinks about the magnitude of the malfunction and the fact that one of said models is currently holed up at Arthur’s flat.

The tablet turns slippery beneath his sweating palms, his heart thumping wildly as he licks his lips and resists the urge to tug at his collar. He feels hot, the wide expanse of the office suddenly suffocating.

“Yes,” Arthur says and is shocked how easily it slips out, how unflinchingly he presents himself even as he lies right to his father’s face. The thought scares him.

His father visibly relaxes. “Then I see no problem and we’ll proceed as planned.” His words ring with finality.

“Father-” Arthur protests, because he’s always been bad to leave well enough alone in the face of his convictions.

Uther cuts him off with a harsh gesture. “Enough,” he says coldly. “We have no more to discuss.”

Arthur bows his head, the tendons in his neck tense enough to feel as though they might snap.

“Yes, father.”

*

That evening, after for once having been able to leave at a reasonable time, Arthur arrives home to an already brightly lit flat and Merlin sprawled out in one of the floating settees. Holding one of Arthur’s ereaders at a weird angle, Merlin is visibly engrossed and doesn’t even look up when Arthur comes in. His robe has ridden up one arm and gotten tangled around his legs, one long, pale thigh visible where it sticks out between the dark fabric. Arthur tries not to stare.

“Welcome home, Mr Pendragon,” Elba greets him belatedly, making Arthur jump a little in surprise and Merlin finally look up, startled.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re here.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and flings his suit jacket into the general direction of the couch.

“Brilliant assessment, Merlin.”

Loosening his tie, Arthur strides past the aquarium and into the kitchen. It looks as untouched as he’d left it. He walks back into the living room.

“Where’s dinner?” he asks, looming over Merlin in what he hopes is a threatening manner.

Merlin glances up at him though thick lashes; lashes, Arthur thinks firmly, that he’s been intimately familiar with for the past months and have absolutely no right to look so captivating. He must be seriously losing his mind.

“Is that a trick question?” Merlin asks drily.

Arthur glares. Definitely losing his mind.

“No, you idiot. I left you with a set of instructions before I left, didn’t I?” he snaps. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lying here lazing about all day!”

Merlin blinks at him and finally, _finally_ lowers the stupid ereader.

“Of course not!” he says, indignant. “I did everything you told me to, but you never said anything about dinner!”

Arthur throws his hands up, exasperated. “It was implied!”

Merlin glowers at him. “How was I supposed to know that? I can’t read your mind, you know.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you know how long I spent fine tuning your settings?”

Merlin sits up, then, and has the audacity to roll his eyes at him. “Oh, please enlighten me.”

“One year, _thirteen months_ to be exact,” Arthur bites out. “Which means that you should have at least enough common sense to realise that general housework includes _cooking a meal_.”

“Or, you know,” Merlin says drily. “You could do what normal people do and actually _say_ what you want. Ever tried that? Communication?”

Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “Did you just instruct me on human behaviour?”

Merlin shrugs. “Apparently someone has to. You seem a bit rusty.”

“ _Mer_ lin!”

Merlin, hair slightly rumpled from rolling around Arthur’s settee all day - and no, Arthur is _not_ picturing that - and every inch as unimpressed by Arthur’s irritation as ever, puts the ereader aside and stands. He’s closer than Arthur expects, but Arthur refuses to budge, even though the proximity makes something hot unfurl in his stomach. He clamps down on it, hard.

“So you want me to make you dinner?” Merlin asks, his legs thankfully hidden once more.

Arthur shoots him an angry look. 

“No need,” he snaps. “I’ll microwave something.”

Merlin throws his hands up. “If it’s so easy, why’d you need to have a go at me, then?”

Arthur tilts his chin up, before turning to stalk back into the kitchen.

“It’s the _principle_ ,” he throws over his shoulder as he brushes the touchpad on one of the drawers. It glides open soundlessly and Arthur reaches inside to pluck out the first foodpacket he finds. He throws it into the microwave without looking what it is. “You’re supposed to make people’s lives easer, not give them grey hair.”

When Arthur turns back around, Merlin is leaning against the counter opposite him and looking at Arthur as though it’s _him_ that’s behaving strangely.

He doesn’t say anything and Arthur does his best to ignore him, instead turns his attention towards the microwave. Peering inside, he sees that he’s apparently chosen pizza, the foodpacket having unfolded into a round shape. When the soft beeping sound indicates that the required time is up, Arthur grabs a plate and deposits the steaming pizza on it.

Merlin’s eyes follow him, watching him as though he is the most interesting thing on the planet. Arthur finds it unnerving, unused to sharing his space with anyone, least of all someone who’s paying him this much attention. To Arthur’s horror he feels almost…flustered. His face feels hotter than usual, a strange flush crawling up the back of his neck.

_This is ridiculous_ , Arthur thinks viciously as he holds the pizza under the laser-cutter. He doesn’t get _flustered_ , not ever and certainly not because of something that isn’t actually alive.

“C’mon,” he says gruffly, jerking his head into the direction of the living room. “Let’s get you hooked up so I can see what’s wrong with you.”

Merlin gives him an unreadable look, but follows on silent, bare feet as Arthur leads the way to his holo-desk, the plate with the now perfectly sliced pizza in hand.

“Sit down,” Arthur orders, taking his own seat behind the desk.

“On the floor?” Merlin asks. “Don’t I at least get a cushion?”

Arthur huffs. “Don’t be such a _girl_ , Merlin.”

Merlin glares and sits down.

Taking one bite out of one of the slices to appease his growling stomach, Arthur fishes around for the pin-cable and bends down, towards Merlin.

“Tilt your head forward a little.”

Merlin throws him a suspicious look, but complies. When Arthur pushes his fingers into the thick, black hair at the back of his head, Merlin jumps beneath his touch.

“What are you _doing_?”

Arthur holds him still, his touch firm but not unkind. His fingers brush the nape of Merlin’s neck and Arthur can feel him shiver slightly. He tries not to think about it.

“I’m looking for the pin-port,” Arthur says, and barely catches one of his thumbs before they can draw a sooting caress against the curve of Merlin’s neck.

“The _what_?” Merlin splutters.

Arthur sighs, exasperated. “It’s a physical port to connect you to a main computer.”

Merlin glances up at him, frowning. “Isn’t that a bit outdated? I thought people didn’t use physical ports anymore.”

“They don’t, usually,” Arthur says. “But it’s safer this way. We’ve had some problems with people hacking into our androids from the TET-RYS line, so I wanted to avoid that. Hence the physical port. Ah!” He adds, triumphant, when his fingers finally brush the tiny ridge that indicates he’s finally found what he’d been looking for. With a careful flick of his fingernail, Arthur puts the right amount of pressure along the hair-fine edge and feels the small latch slide open.

He plugs the cable in and feels Merlin flinch sharply. Arthur’s hand slides down, reflexively cupping the side of his neck in reassurance, his thumb pressed against one of Merlin’s collarbones.

“You alright?” Arthur asks, frowning. “You weren’t supposed to feel that.” _Or anything else for that matter_.

“Oh, really,” Merlin shoots back testily, but his body still tilts, leaning into Arthur’s touch. Arthur tries not to think about that either. “Well, you can put that on your list of malfunctions, then, because that was just…weird. And I mean _really_ weird.”

Arthur gives Merlin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, before letting go. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Merlin looks up at him as Arthur turns his attention towards his holo-desk, opening windows and readying his workspace.

“What do you mean _next time_?” he asks. “Does that mean we have to do this again?”

“Of course we’ll have to do it again,” Arthur shoots back as he studies the line of code in front of him, but finding nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. “I’m good, but not _that_ good. It’ll take me a few goes to find out what’s going on and I can only do this properly if I can check all of your stats as we go.”

Merlin leans back against the rounded edge of the table leg, mindful of the wire sticking out of the back of his head, and apparently resigns himself to his fate.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Get on with it, then.”

Arthur shoots him a look. “You’re still not the one giving the orders, you know.”

Merlin’s glare is his only answer.

*

An hour later the pizza is gone and the now empty plate on the floor, for there isn’t a single inch on the holo-desk that isn’t overflowing with data. Windows are stacked over each other unevenly and some more are hovering over the desk-top, scattered around Arthur; a virtual wall separating him from the real world.

Merlin hasn’t moved from his place, his head still tilted backwards and resting against the desk. He’s been watching Arthur, his eyes following Arthur’s fingers as they tap and type and shift around windows. He hasn’t said anything else and his lack of movement and unwavering stare should be unnerving, except for the fact that they aren’t.

Arthur finds himself oddly at peace, sinking into his work and wading through endless lines of code. It’s only the few times that he emerges, when a process is finished and the force of the frustration at having come up with nothing cuts through his concentration, that Arthur even remembers that he isn’t alone.

Despite every evidence to the contrary, Arthur is surprised to find out that Merlin can be surprisingly quiet. At first, Arthur had almost thought that Merlin was finally acting like the android he was supposed to be, but Merlin’s expression hadn’t been vacant, but intent and attentive; his lips twitching ever so often and making it hard for Arthur to keep from smiling back. 

The whole thing leaves Arthur decidedly unsettled - an emotion he’s become frighteningly familiar with in connection to Merlin.

“And?” Merlin says, and even though his voice is quiet, Arthur starts a little when the silence that seemed so complete just a moment ago is suddenly gone. “Have you found anything?”

Arthur clears his throat, then scowls a little when he looks back at his latest results.

“Nothing,” he says glumly. “Except the snag with your memory components, which is obviously due to the lag in your hard drive. But then again, your speech processing and production components seem fine, otherwise you’d have trouble understanding and communicating, which you don’t. Obviously.” Arthur twists his ring thoughtfully. “It must be an error in accessing your stored information.”

“So what now?”

“Now we’re calling it a night,” Arthur says, rubbing at his tired eyes. The time in the right corner of his desk, half-buried beneath some other window, reads almost three in the morning. “I’m wiped out and I’ve got work in the morning.”

Reaching down with tired fingers, Arthur gently tugs out the pin. Merlin flinches, but doesn’t protest and Arthur barely keeps himself from giving Merlin’s shoulder another gentle squeeze. He clears his suddenly dry throat.

“And just in case it isn’t clear,” he says, stiff and as impersonal as he can make it. “I expect you to have breakfast ready for me tomorrow at seven.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and when Arthur finally makes his way towards his bedroom after finishing recording tonight’s results, he finds Merlin already back on the floating settee from before, ereader once again in his hands and his toes tucked neatly between the white folds.

*

That night is one of _those_ nights.

Nights filled with twisted sheets and frustrated sighs that border on desperation, nights where the hours drag endlessly and no matter how resolutely Arthur keeps his eyes pressed shut, sleep eludes him at every turn.

It’s a fight he never seems to win, at least not like this.

Arthur thinks about getting up, of stumbling to the living room and curling up on the couch. Sometimes it helps, if only for the fact that the empty space beside him isn’t quite so vast and the distant babbling of late night broadcasts melding with the flickering lights of the holo-projector lulls him into a restless sleep.

But tonight is different, because Merlin is out there. And it’s stupid. So very stupid, but Arthur doesn’t want to show that kind of weakness, doesn’t want Merlin to see him rumpled, desperate for sleep and so, _so_ tired. Because it’s during these hours, when dawn is still too far off and Arthur’s spent too long locked inside his own head, that are the most dangerous.

Arthur knows he’s vulnerable like this. There has been stretches of time, days where even partying and drinking himself into oblivion hadn’t been enough, when he’d resorted to the child that used to crawl into Morgana’s bed, her comforting arms and scent enveloping him safely and carrying him over into the land of dreams. 

Morgana had first come to them when Arthur had just turned four. Her mother and stepfather had died in a shuttle crash, leaving Uther as the only living relative.

Arthur doesn’t remember a lot from back then, but he does remember Morgana, nine years old and already so beautiful. He remembers thinking that she must be some sort of doll and Morgana, ever vicious, had twisted his ear for saying it aloud. Arthur, unused to being manhandled, had promptly burst into tears. Morgana had been horrified, immediately crushing him to her chest and petting his hair.

 For a month after that, Arthur deliberately forced himself to cry just so Morgana would hug him again, until she found him out and told him to stop being stupid. Hurt, Arthur had hidden away in his room for the rest of the day, until Morgana sneaked in after dark, well after his bedtime, and crawled under the covers with him. She’d curled around him and told him that this was their little secret and when she’d woken up crying in the middle of the night, Arthur had hugged her tightly, daring to reach for her for the first time.

Their father doesn’t know about it, never found out about how Arthur had used to sneak into his sister’s room and let her gentle hands on his brow ease him into sleep. And Arthur is glad because he knows that he would’ve forbidden it.

And then things started to change and there came a time when the times that Morgana sought Arthur out outweighed the ones where Arthur sneaked into her room. She would wake up, shaking and screaming, babbling incoherently and clutching at Arthur’s shoulders. It had been better, with Arthur there to hold her, with his fingers combing steadily through her thick, dark hair until his hand ached with the motion, but still he would keep going lest the change in rhythm plunged his sister into yet another nightmare.

And then it wasn’t just about nightmares anymore, it was about Morgana’s insistence that there was someone calling for her, that they needed help and she was determined to see it done. Arthur had listened to her, had tried reasoning with her and, when that had failed, had started playing along for her sake. He never breathed a word of it to their father.

But Uther isn’t stupid, he could tell that something had been up.

The day their father finally found out about the extent of Morgana’s illness, it had been bright and sunny. Arthur had just received his end of the year report and had been ready to start his long anticipated summer holidays. But when he’d come home, excited and in high spirits, he’d found their father pale and grim-faced waiting for him at the dining table.

And Arthur had known, right then and there, he had known. But he’d asked anyway.

_What happened?_ , he’d said, voice as tight as his chest. _Where’s Morgana?_

And his father had looked at him, calm and stone-faced, and said, _She’ll be staying at a special facility for a while._

Arthur had stared at him. _You sent her away? Just like that?_

_It had to be done. I know this is hard for you to understand, but your sister is very ill. She needs professional help of the sort that we can’t provide for her here. Believe me, it was just as hard for me as it is for you._

Arthur’s nails had dug bright red moons into his palms. _Can I see her?_

But his father had shaken his head. _Not for a while. It’s important that she gets settled in first._

And Arthur had clenched his jaw and nodded, swallowing down all the bitter words burning on his tongue. His father’s hand, when it had landed on Arthur’s shoulder, had been stiff and unfamiliar, but his expression had been as soft as Arthur had ever seen it.

_I am sorry, Arthur._

And Arthur had believed him.

So even now, when sometimes being with himself becomes just that little bit too unbearable, Arthur gives in and sneaks downstairs into Morgana’s flat and into her bed - a bed that isn’t too big and where there’s someone’s breathing other than his own filling the stillness of the night.

And Morgana doesn’t say anything, not ever, simply takes Arthur’s hand, or curls against his side, and they sleep like this - not always sound and far from perfect, but together and so much less alone.

But for tonight, Arthur shifts and turns and buries his head beneath his pillow, eyes closed but wide awake.

*

Breakfast is, of course, not ready when Arthur emerges from his bedroom the next morning. It really shouldn’t surprise him.

“Do you know what time it is?” he says sharply, folding his arms as he watches Merlin rummage around the cupboards.

Merlin, whose malfunction clearly includes his inability for propriety, lifts his shoulders in an unconcerned shrug. He holds up a tin of egg-powder. “Eggs okay?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, pressing a “Fine” past his teeth and tries very hard not to let his temper flare.

He grabs a cup and activates the coffee machine himself, giving his hands something to do that isn’t smacking Merlin across the head. Behind him, Merlin has gotten out a pan and is now carelessly throwing egg-powder into it, managing to cover not only the pan but also the surrounding area in yellowish dust.

“I don’t have to remind you that it’s you who’ll be cleaning up that mess,” Arthur says coolly, taking his coffee to the breakfast bar and sliding onto a stool with practised ease.

Merlin rolls his eyes, grabs a cooking capsule from the rack above the heating platform and chucks it into the pan with a flick of his wrist. Arthur tries his best not to stare at it, pale and finely boned. _Not real_ , he reminds himself firmly. No bones, simply an excellent artificial skeleton and artful wiring.

Grabbing a stirrer, Merlin ups the platform’s heat with a brush of his ridiculously graceful fingers and Arthur silently curses each and everyone who’d been involved with the M-RYS models’ design.

“Could you hurry it up,” he demands, and he knows it’s petulant, but it’s the only way he knows to distract himself. “I have to leave in half an hour.”

Merlin shoots a dubious look at the barely lightening sky, hand never faltering as he mixes the now melted capsule with the powder, creating the dense yellow consistency that are slowly morphing into scrambled eggs.

“Who gets up at this ridiculous hour anyway?” Merlin asks, winkling his nose a little as though the notion is particularly distasteful. Considering it’s coming from a computer that doesn’t even need to sleep, the whole thing is rather ridiculous. “I thought you were the CEO, or something. Doesn’t that mean you get to sleep in? Come in when you want?”

“Assistant CEO,” Arthur corrects automatically. “And of course you’d think that. I can see how seriously you take your duties.” He pointedly narrows his eyes at the mess on his countertops and the unhurried way in which Merlin is stirring the eggs.

Merlin scowls at him. “I’m not your servant.”

Arthur wishes he had something to throw at him. “You are whatever I say you are,” he snaps. “Remember the conversation we had about standby?”

Merlin visibly clenches his jaw and gives Arthur a hateful stare, looking not in the least threatened. Grabbing a plate from the cupboard above him, he artlessly dumps the steaming eggs on it and very nearly throws it down on the counter in front of Arthur.

“Here you are, Your Royal Prattishness,” Merlin bites out. Then adds a sickeningly pleasant, “Enjoy your meal.” Which rather sounds as though he hopes Arthur would choke on it.

Arthur can feel the flush of anger burning hotly all the way from his nape to his face, but before he can say anything else, Merlin has brushed past him and disappeared down the hall.

He doesn’t scream in frustration, but it’s a very near thing. His ring digs sharply into his skin as he squeezes his fork in a punishing grip.

*

Arthur throws himself into his work, guilt nagging at him every step of the way. He’s not used to lying; can’t stand it, in fact, and his dishonesty feels like a physical itch beneath his skin.

Thankfully, putting together the preparations for the M-RYS launch party is keeping him harried enough to at least take his mind off his personal dilemma most of the time. Even so, Nimueh is trying his patience and his nerves are stretched thin over the next two days between being forced into Nimueh’s presence and his father’s unspoken, but all too familiar, demands. Usually, Arthur at least has some time to himself in the evenings to, if not unwind, then at least wind down, but now his home isn’t his own anymore and there’s Merlin with his stupid smile and ridiculous ears and those bloody cheekbones-

He wants to hate Merlin, wants it so much - and Arthur tries, he really does. Tries so hard to focus on the unpleasant way in which Merlin’s suddenly shoved his way into Arthur’s life, on how he can never do as Arthur tells him to. Arthur thinks about the messes Merlin makes and the way he touches Arthur’s things and then forgets to put them back, on the rebellious fire in his eyes and how there must be so much passion simmering right there, beneath the surface, and the way his lips sometimes quirk just the tiniest bit when Arthur is being particularly sarcastic, on what these lips would feel like on-

Arthur shuts down on that line of thought with enough force to make him dizzy. No. No, no, no, not going there, not even anywhere _near_ there, not at all.

His head is throbbing and he brings his hand to his face, rubbing it roughly before pinching the bridge of his nose for good measure.

“You look like hell,” Lance says from the door to Arthur’s office and when Arthur checks the time on his holo-desk, he finds that lunch time has somehow creeped up on him while he wasn’t looking.

 Lance takes a step inside, the door sliding shut behind him, and sets down a clear pod in front of Arthur - salad again, because he’s known Arthur long enough to know that he hates heavy food while he’s working.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says, a lingering edge of sharpness in his voice. Stress has done little in tempering his mood.

Lance raises a pointed eyebrow, but thankfully refrains from commenting as he settles into the chair opposite Arthur’s desk and pulls out a sandwich.

“There’s a get-together at Elena and Mithian’s tonight,” he says instead, unwrapping it. “You should come. Elyan and Percy are in as well.”

Arthur thinks about Merlin, then about Morgana, who he hasn’t had time to visit since this whole thing had started.

He presses his lips together. “I don’t know…”

“Arthur,” Lance says, for once unrelenting. “You need a breather. Come to dinner, relax a little. You don’t have to stay long, just…give yourself a break, alright?”

Arthur traces his ring, pushing the pad of his index finger into the ridge where gold meets platinum.

“I wanted to visit Morgana tonight,” he says, feeling his forehead folding into an increasingly unhappy frown.

Lance sighs and puts down his half-eaten sandwich as he leans forward in his seat.

“Morgana can wait for another night,” he says mildly. “We can visit her together, tomorrow.”

Arthur gives him a look. “You mean you want to visit Gwen.”

Lance looks suddenly very red and Arthur can’t help but laugh at him a little, feeling himself relax for the first time today.

“You know I care about Morgana,” Lance says, almost wounded. “She’s my friend. I worry about her and I want to see her.”

Arthur smiles at him, pats his arm as he finally relents and picks up that stupid salad. “I know.”

And he does. Other than Elyan, who frequently drops by Morgana’s flat to see Gwen, Lance seems to be handling the whole thing the best. His natural charm and altogether unthreatening presence appear to have a soothing effect on Morgana and so, despite her usual reluctance towards strangers, she’d quickly warmed to Lance after Arthur had introduced him when they’d met in second grade. Which is also the epic story of how Lance fell in love with Gwen at first sight when she’d become Morgana’s nurse two years ago and then proceeded to do Arthur’s head in by going all starry eyed every time her name was mentioned. It still had taken him and Gwen, who’d clearly been equally besotted, over a year to finally confess to each other.

Arthur had mostly reacted to the whole thing with some teasing and a lot of eye rolling.

“Fine, I’ll come,” Arthur finally relents with a sigh, their food now gone.

And Lance gives him one of those bright smiles of his that are enough to charm the socks off everyone within his radius and brings a hand down on Arthur’s back in a friendly clap. “Great, I’ll come up in the evening and we can go together.”

*

Percy and Elyan are already there when Lance and Arthur arrive. Elena opens the door with a blinding smile and squeezes them both in a hug that Arthur swears has his bones grinding together. Elena’s always been a lot stronger than she looks, a fact that quite a few people have found out the hard way over the years. There’s a reason why she’d instantly hit it off with Percy, turning them into the terror of every bouncer. There isn’t a brawl in the entertainment district that Elena and Percy haven’t at least marginally been part of, both of them far too eager to hand out punches to those they deem in need of some.

Mithian, who Arthur’s known since he was little and been friends with just as long, is Elena’s opposite in a lot of ways - possibly the reason why they complement each other so flawlessly. They met on one of the rare nights where Arthur and Percy convinced her to come out with them and it had more or less been love at first sight for them - or at least for Elena, who’d started pursuing a somewhat reluctant Mithian rather relentlessly until she’d finally agreed to give her a chance. 

_Best decision I ever made_ , Mithian had admitted to Arthur after they’d started dating officially, hearts practically shining from her eyes.

“Arthur,” Mithian greets him warmly, her hug much gentler but no less sincere. “I’m so happy you made it. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says and means it. He gives her a squeeze, then lets go with a rueful smile. “Work’s been kind of insane lately.”

Mithian nods. “So I’ve heard.” She looks at Arthur, then, and he already knows what her next question will be. People tend to get a certain look about them when talking to Arthur about his sister, a strange mix between sympathetic and a forced neutrality that never fails to make Arthur’s defences flare up, sharp and instinctive. “How’s Morgana?”

Arthur presses his lips together and tries very hard to look unaffected. “She’s well, thank you.” _Still insane_ , he doesn’t say. _Still drugged to the gills most of the time and babbling nonsense, thank you very much for asking._

“Good,” Mithian says, giving him a slightly nervous smile. “That’s good.”

And when she turns away to address the others, calling them to the table, Arthur lets himself breathe a sigh of relief. He’s never liked airing his personal matters, not even to his closest friends, and out of all of them, his sister is a particularly sore spot. If only for the reason that Arthur feels so very helpless whenever he thinks about her and the fact that there’s nothing, nothing at all, that he can do for her.

It’s unfair, he knows. Mithian cares, all his friends do, and it must be difficult for them, especially Mithian who’d known Morgana _before_. Even so, Arthur has always known that they rub each other the wrong way, Morgana’s decent into insanity notwithstanding. Still, Mithian had made an effort to visit a handful of times until Morgana made Arthur promise to keep Mithian out of her hair from now on.

Elena and Percy had been a little more successful in their attempts to befriend Morgana, but Arthur can tell that Morgana makes Elena uneasy and that Percy has trouble figuring out how to act around her - though neither of them would ever say anything like that to Arthur’s face.

Shaking off his morose train of thought, Arthur follows everyone to the table.

It’s laden down with bowls and platters, each of them hovering above their designated spot at the centre of the table; brightly coloured vegetables and potatoes freshly picked from their growing pods, rice, pasta in all shapes and colours. In-between, neatly presented, are the chemically grown meat and fish bases, pre-cut into sensible, mouth-sized pieces with an abundance of different flavouring capsules held by little ornate vases.

The sight alone makes Arthur’s previously silent stomach growl traitorously. 

“Eat up,” Elena says cheerfully.

Which prompts everyone into motion. Not a moment later, the room is filled with the sound of chatter and the clattering of plates and cutlery. Dishes are passed around, exchanging hands as everyone puts a little bit of everything on their plates, the rims bursting to life as they’re filled, descriptions and temperatures flashing up, ignored.

Arthur, after piling a small amount of each side-dish and a handful of diced meat base, chooses a chicken flavoured capsule and then, feeling particularly indulgent for once, a few general flavour enhancers.

Elyan and Mithian struck up a conversation about the health care system and Lance joins in, while at the other side of the table Percy and Elena regale Arthur with a tale about their last brawl. No one brings up his family or work again and Arthur finally feels himself relax for the first time in days, laughing and eating so much he thinks he might never be able to get up off his chair again.

Afterwards they settle in front of the entertainment system and battle each other in various holo-games. It’s only much later, after he’s beat Mithian at chess for the third time in a row that he finally manages to force himself to bid everyone goodnight and braves the freezing night outside.

*

The drive home is mercifully short and Arthur is ready to just go to bed, maybe finally get round to continuing the book he hasn’t managed to finish in a month because of his busy schedule. But when he comes home, Merlin is waiting for him, leaning against the wall just off the hall, his arms folded and his face set into something grim and unreadable.

“Would it have killed you to let me know that you’d be home late?” he asks quietly. 

Arthur feels a twinge of guilt, but forces himself to clamp down on it. He sincerely wishes that he could just ignore him, but there’s something about Merlin - he can’t quite put his finger on it; something that never fails to bypass all of his meticulously erected barriers and go straight under his skin. 

“I didn’t know I had to announce my plans to you,” Arthur says, going for cool and dismissive as he slips out of his coat and suit jacket.

“I was worried, you prat,” Merlin snaps and there’s nothing Arthur can do about the sudden warmth flooding his chest. It’s terrifying. “I know you’re stressed about the launch and everything, and I understand it must be weird to suddenly have someone in your space, but that doesn’t mean that you have to be such a clotpole about everything.”

“Clotpole?” Arthur asks, momentarily side-tracked.

Merlin gives him an exasperated look. “Listen, I know this whole situation is a little messed up, but I thought it might help if we actually talk to each other. Maybe get to know each other a little, spend some time together or something.”

Panic seizes Arthur, sudden and overwhelming, each of his walls slamming down instinctively. A sneer tugs at his lips, cruel in his desperation to defend himself from the inexplicable longing to say _yes, yes I’d like that_. Arthur ruthlessly clamps down on all of it.

“What is this?” he snaps harshly. “Are you going to ask to braid my hair and paint each other’s nails next?” 

And just like that, every bit of softness on Merlin’s face disappears. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and tastes blood. 

“You’re a right arsehole, you know that?” Merlin bites out.

“Oh, I know,” Arthur scoffs. “I’m also the one in charge here, which you seem to keep forgetting.” He lifts his finger and Merlin glares at it viciously. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully. I don’t owe you anything. You’re not my _friend_ , you’re a computer, _Mer_ lin - and for all intents and purposes, until I give you back, you’re _my_ computer. So you’ll do as I tell you; nothing more, nothing less. Are we clear?”

Merlin’s face is shuttered, a hard edge to his jaw and his eyes, if possible, somehow even bluer than usual. It hurts a little to look at him, but Arthur forces himself to hold his gaze, not backing down.

“Crystal,” Merlin hisses, voice tight and angry. And it almost looks as though that’s all he’s going to say, makes as if to leave Arthur standing there, but then he turns back once more and fixes him with a look that traps the breath in Arthur’s chest. “You know, when you took me with you- when you stopped disassembling me because I asked you to, I thought,” His eyes flicker away, before resettling on Arthur, heavy and full of hurt. “I thought you did it because you cared. Clearly, I was wrong.”

He does go then, leaving Arthur with the feeling as though he’s swallowed an entire chunk of ice.

*

Merlin isn’t talking to him and Arthur tells himself that that’s exactly the way he likes it.

He tries checking his emails, but keeps catching himself as he steals glances at Merlin aggressively making him breakfast. Arthur stubbornly convinces himself that he’s only looking because he enjoys the fact that he’s finally managed to shut Merlin up for good, but that lie is too big, a round peg trying to fit into a square hole and failing, no matter how hard Arthur shoves at it.

Merlin, who manages to turn even his silence into something rebellious and belligerent, plonks down Arthur’s french toast in a way that almost has it toppling over the edge of the plate. That done, he stomps off, retreating to his usual place on the floating settee with Arthur’s ereader without so much as a glance in Arthur’s direction. 

Arthur scowls at his food, but he really can’t be arsed dealing with another argument at this hour; when the times spent throwing himself from one edge of the bed to the other are still closer than not, the desperate need for sleep still lingering, clinging to him in a way that has Arthur’s lids feel heavy and his mind sluggish. 

He barely tastes the food as he shovels it into his mouth, eating only about half and cutting up the rest into tiny pieces which he then spreads artfully across his plate.

Merlin doesn’t look up once, no quiet word of goodbye drifting into the hall as Arthur puts on his shoes.

_Good_ , Arthur thinks stubbornly, even as his chest feels too tight and he has to swallow a few times to make his throat feel less constricted. _He got the message._

*

Work is hectic and Arthur spends most of his time fending off Nimueh and sending Leon list after list of things that still need to be done. And if that wasn’t enough, later that evening his father drags him out for a last minute get-together with some special VIPs and business partners.

By the end of the night, Arthur’s cheeks are aching from overly-bright smiles and the weight of his exhaustion has turned the sweet taste of the many desserts into something sickly in his mouth. The abundance of food that had been served lies heavily in his stomach and Arthur feels ill with it.

He finally slips away just after another bottle of wine has been opened, making his excuses to the inebriated VIPs and his not entirely sober father, who waves him off good-naturedly. 

Setting his car on auto-pilot, Arthur dozes the entire ride back to the flat and can hardly make himself exit it once he’s arrived. He honestly considers simply going to sleep right then and there, but manages to somehow scramble out in the end.

The movement of the ascender, though smooth and steady, is enough to make him press his lips together as his stomach roils. He barely catches a passing glance of Merlin, tucked into his usual place with only the blue glow of the aquarium and the pale light of the ereader’s screen making him look faintly ghostly, before he’s stumbled past and straight into his bedroom, falling face-first into his sheets.

When he wakes some hours later, his windows have been darkened to block the busy city lights and there’s a glass of water on his bedside table. Next to it, a loaded hypospray is laid out, ready for use.

Arthur tries very hard not to care, tries to ignore the gesture for something any domestic android would do. He almost succeeds, if it weren’t for the fact that Merlin hasn’t ever behaved like a true domestic android, not once, and Arthur very much doubts that he’s started now. Guilt niggles at him, but he pushes it down, firmly reminding himself of the fact that Merlin is just a temporary thing and that getting attached to an android is never a good thing. Getting attached to _anyone_ isn’t a good thing.

_I thought you did it because you cared._ His ceiling seems to be telling him, his inner eye supplying the gut wrenching image of Merlin’s beautiful face twisted with hurt. _Clearly, I was wrong._

Arthur blanches, decides that he must still be drunk and shakily reaches for the hypo, wincing a little as he administers it. Praying that the lingering feelings of exhaustion and the remaining alcohol in his system is still high enough to drug him into sleep, Arthur rolls over and closes his eyes.

He ends up sleeping until noon.

It’s Saturday, so he doesn’t have to get up, half-heartedly promising himself that he would go to the office later tonight, or maybe tomorrow.

He wishes he could say that he’s forgotten all about his argument with Merlin, that the bitter taste in his mouth is from something other than the cutting words he’d so viciously thrown about.

Merlin, of course, is still ignoring him and makes no sign of even having noticed Arthur’s presence as he enters the kitchen. Throwing a series of surreptitious glances at Merlin’s profile through the aquarium, Arthur’s eyes unwittingly linger on the edges of Merlin’s face, softened by the reflections of the water. 

The fish almost look as though they’re mocking him. Arthur scowls at them and turns away.

On the counter behind him, he finds a cold cup of coffee, a plate with eggs that have dried and shriveled up a little since this morning, and an equally cold plate of a meagre lunch. All of this is set out in an obnoxious row, right there for Arthur to find. Little else has ever spelled out _fuck you_ quite like this before. Arthur doesn’t know what makes him feel worse, the lingering guilt or the fact that he’s feeling guilty in the first place.

Not knowing what else to do with himself and dreading leaving the safety of the kitchen, Arthur chucks the food into the recycling tube and the coffee into the sink, before starting up the coffee maker and rummaging through the cupboards in the search for some toast. He digs out some jam and slaps that on as well, before steeling himself and carrying everything off to his working area.

Across the room, Merlin doesn’t stir.

Arthur hovers next to his desk chair like an idiot, before squaring his shoulders in decision. Clearly, this isn’t about to go away and leave him in peace and Arthur can’t stand leaving things unresolved.

He takes a deep breath. “Merlin,” he says, a little stiff and a lot awkward. “Come over here, please.”

And Merlin does look up, then. Maybe it’s the ‘please’ that does it. It all makes Arthur feel even more of an arsehole - something that despite frequent claims to the contrary, he doesn’t enjoy in the least.

Merlin manages to project a rebellious air even as he complies, glaring at Arthur all the way through his march across the room. He folds himself into his usual spot by the holo-desk next to Arthur’s chair and Arthur sits down as well, muscles tight with tension.

He powers up the holo-desk and fishes the pin-cable from where it’s dropped to the floor. When he goes to reach for Merlin to plug it in, however, Merlin jerks away from his touch before Arthur’s fingers have the chance to so much as brush him. Instead, he gives Arthur another vicious glare and yanks the cable from his hand, deftly slotting it into place himself.

The rejection leaves Arthur oddly hollow, something clenching painfully in his chest that Arthur refuses to believe is his heart.

He swallows and looks away, turning towards the glowing surface of the desk and staring down at it, unseeing. He brings up the window with Merlin’s code, but it all bleeds into lines of gibberish and Arthur has to clear a throat that feels as though its coated in sandpaper.

“I might have been a bit…harsh,” he says abruptly, the words tumbling from his mouth without him even remembering putting them together. He clears his throat, again, then adds stupidly, “The other night.” As if there’d been any doubt as to which timeframe he’d been referring.

Merlin looks up at him sharply. “You think?”

Arthur deflates a little, pushing the breath from his lungs, and twists his ring. Left, right, then left again.

“I’m just,” he starts, then stops again, fumbling for words. “I’m not used to- this. Sharing my space, having someone else here. My father wasn’t around much and I moved out years ago, and my sister-” he clamps down abruptly, suddenly aware of how much he was just about to lay bare. The growing horror of how easy it feels to just blurt these things out to Merlin, when Arthur usually has trouble sharing even the most basic information about himself, makes Arthur recoil - his battered little thing of a heart shrieking in silent mortification and crawling into some hidden corner in his chest while beating so hard Arthur fears it might never calm down again. 

Fingers curling inwards, Arthur mercilessly presses his fingernails into the flesh of his palm as he carefully draws his tattered self-control around himself once more. 

“What I’m trying to say,” he says then, relieved when it comes out appropriately hard-edged. “Is that it’s going to take a while to get used to this- you. And I’d appreciate you not asking any questions about me or my family. I’m not big on sharing.”

Merlin gives him a long look, apparently unfazed by the tone of his voice. And when Arthur dares to meet his eyes, he doesn’t look angry anymore, which, stupidly enough, makes Arthur breathe just that little easier.

“You could’ve just said so, you know,” Merlin says, quiet now and oddly intimate. It makes Arthur’s skin feel tight and too hot. “I wasn’t trying to make you tell me anything you don’t want to, I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Arthur twists his ring again, looks away. “I know.”

*

Despite his initial optimism about the discovery of the malfunction, Arthur soon realises that there’s no way he’ll be able to return Merlin in time for the other models to be shipped out. Clearly, he should be chagrined about that. Instead, he catches himself with something that feels a lot like relief spreading through his chest and easing a knot there he hadn’t even been aware of. And really, between rushing from one interview to the next, dealing with the ongoing preparations for that blasted launch party and having his father breathing down his neck at every turn, Arthur could really do without having even more to add on top. Especially not a malfunctioning android that he’s currently illegally harbouring in his flat and - because such is Arthur’s life - he’s apparently developing some sort of twisted obsession for.

Because yes, that’s all it is. Obsession, unhealthy infatuation- definitely not anything involving his stupid heart, which quite clearly is bent on making horrible decisions for him and hasn’t managed to get the message that it’s better left where it is after the last time it’d tried to get involved in Arthur’s life.

Lance knows something’s up, of course he does. Arthur can see it in his eyes, hear it in the cadence of his voice when he asks Arthur if he’s alright. He doesn’t press, which Arthur expects but is no less grateful for. For someone like Arthur, who’s used to bottling things - and by _things_ he means feelings - up and carefully shelving them to be ignored as best he can, not telling Lance about Merlin turns out to be far harder than he’d thought.

Two weeks after he’d encountered the mystery that is Merlin, Arthur is beyond frustrated and caught in a helpless limbo where nothing seems like he hasn’t been over it at least a dozen times before. At a dead end and tired of his own, uselessly spiralling thoughts, Arthur carefully proceeds to not talk about Merlin with Lance during their customary lunch break.

He dives into the topic with as much apparent detachment as he possibly can which, in retrospect, is probably exactly what tips Lance off in the first place. Arthur’s acting skills, as award winning as they are to the rest of the world, have never been much good with Lance - which is probably the reason why he’d ended up in the sorry position of Arthur’s best friend in the first place.

“How likely is it,” Arthur starts his carefully prepared sentence, never taking his eyes off his lunch. “That a glitch with the memory components affects only the stored information on the hard drive without affecting the personalisation process and speech patterns?”

Lance looks up with a frown, taking the time to swallow before he answers.

“Incredibly unlikely,” he says, wiping his hands on a stray napkin. “In fact, it’s pretty implausible if you ask me. As you know, our hard drives work entirely on interlocking partitions - a glitch with the memory components would stand in direct line with the behavioural settings.”

Arthur taps his fork against the edge of the pod. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but hearing it confirmed only highlights how out of his depth he really is. 

“What about a delay, then?”

Lance tilts his head in thought. “Possible,” he says slowly, before shaking his head. “But usually that leads to hang-ups in the entire system and could lead to the android freezing or missing bits of data while the system is busy catching up. And it’d show in the code, wouldn’t it?”

Arthur sighs and rubs his face, suddenly feeling impossibly tired. “Yeah,” he says, defeated. “It would.”

Lance gives him a long look and Arthur knows that face, knows that he’s failed his performance.

“Why’re you asking?” Lance asks, still studying him intently in a way that makes Arthur want to squirm. He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. “Are you having problems with one of the androids?”

“No,” Arthur says, but even to his own ears it sounds unconvincing.

Lace raises his eyebrows. “Arthur,” he says in his I-know-you’re-trying-to-bullshit-me-so-try-again voice. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Arthur does know that, but even now, with all the things weighing heavily on his mind, he can’t bring himself to say anything.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “Really.”

Lance doesn’t look convinced. At all. But thankfully, he lets the topic drop and doesn’t stop Arthur from changing the subject.

When Arthur returns to work a few minutes later, he tries very hard not to think about Merlin, and fails miserably.

*

Taking a deep breath, Arthur rings the doorbell for propriety’s sake, before waving his chip at the scanner and entering his sister’s flat.

It’s the opposite from Arthur’s own preferences, old fashioned and full of colour. Curtains adorned with expensive lace frame the windows and Arthur isn’t even sure where she’s got them from - they’re probably custom made. An unnecessary amount of pillows is artfully arranged on a squishy couch that looks like something out of an antique shop - which, knowing Morgana, is probably where she got it from. Physical books are lined along an ancient looking shelf and real plants stretch towards the windows from all over the room.

Arthur makes it past the clutter and through a wooden sliding door leading into the kitchen, which easily rivals the size of the main living room. Having been forced to spend most of her life at home, Morgana has taken up cooking and baking as her hobbies. Her doctors confirmed that it would benefit her, saying that regulated and organised activity would help distract her from what’s going on inside her head and instead make it easier to concentrate on something rooted in the real world.

Arthur is just happy to see Morgana lucid enough to do anything, really. Not to mention that, before Merlin, she’d been the only reason he ever ate anything other than ready meals.

Today, however, Morgana isn’t standing behind a counter, whisking or stirring furiously. Instead, she’s curled up on the sofa in the corner with a book. Ariadne, her demon of a cat, is resting in her lap and Gwen, on the opposite end, is flicking her fingers across the screen of the tablet in her hands. When she catches sight of Arthur, she greets him with a smile and puts down her tablet, standing up to meet him.

“How’s she doing?” Arthur asks quietly, his eyes flickering to his sister who serenely turns a page in her book. Too serenely.

As if sensing his gaze, Ariadne opens one of her golden eyes and gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look, before closing it once more. She looks, once more, deeply asleep. Arthur doesn’t buy it for a second.

“She’s alright,” Gwen says, casting a sympathetic look in Morgana’s direction before turning back to him. “We had a bit of a rough night. She kept waking up, screaming, so I had to double her dose again. She eventually settled when the sun came up.”

Arthur frowns. “You should’ve called me.”

Gwen gives him a soft look and touches his arm. “You need your rest, Arthur. It wasn’t that bad, all things considered. She’s been doing really well these past few weeks.” _It was bound to get worse again soon_ , she doesn’t say, but Arthur knows that that’s what she’s thinking.

He looks away, studying Morgana’s apparent passivity. The distant look in her eyes is all too familiar and even after years of the same, it still makes Arthur’s heart clench painfully in his chest.

“Yeah,” is all he can bring himself to say, jaw tight.

Gwen gives his arm a gentle squeeze, before letting go and retreating to the living area to give them some privacy. Arthur appreciates the thought.

Gwen is by far the best nurse Morgana’s ever had and Arthur’s endlessly grateful for her presence. She’s the first person living with Morgana that Arthur doesn’t feel like throttling every time he has a conversation with them. After Katrina, Arthur had seriously considered taking Morgana in and caring for her himself, but his father had wanted to hear nothing about it. He insisted that Arthur was in no position to provide the appropriate care, that there were professionals for ‘this sort of thing’ who wouldn’t be sacrificing their careers in the process.

But while it’s true that Arthur lacks patience in most areas and that caring for Morgana is a 24/7 job, he’s sure that for Morgana, he could’ve done it - even if it had meant going crazy right alongside her. When the topic had come up, however, Morgana - in one of her more lucid phases - had refused and told Arthur that there was no way she would live with him under the same roof. She’d been convinced that she’d kill him within the first week and Arthur really couldn’t bring himself to contradict her, because he’s pretty sure that it’s true.

Sucking in a breath, Arthur takes a step forward. Ariadne’s ears twitch, as does her tail.

_Sleeping my foot_ , he thinks as he eyes the black cat warily. _She’s probably fantasising about clawing my eyes out right now._

Arthur doesn’t understand why Morgana had insisted on getting an actual cat. At least with a zoondroid they could’ve programmed her to be something other than a vicious little beast. But Morgana has always loved old things and has kept herself apart from most of Pendragon’s tech as long as Arthur can remember. The only things she’s allowed into her home are a communicator and tablet - of which both models are terribly outdated - and an ebook reader for when she can’t find something in print. When she listens to music, she does so over a clunky sound system from the previous century that Arthur refuses to call an antique; she doesn’t own an entertainment unit and Arthur can’t remember the last time he’s seen her actually watch something on a screen. Due to her frequent headaches, vivid nightmares and her type of medication, Arthur knows that Morgana has trouble focusing, especially if it involves rapid movements and flashes of light.

Mindful of Adriane’s flexing paws, Arthur carefully lowers himself to sit by Morgana’s folded legs.

“Hey,” he says softly. “How’re you feeling?”

It takes a moment for Morgana to acknowledge him, but when she does it’s with a dopey smile, blurry around the edges and lacking any of her natural sharpness.

“Arthur,” she says, her lips stretched wide.

Arthur forces his lips to curve. “Hey,” he repeats lamely. It’s unlikely that anything he says will get through to his sister when she’s like this.

When she grasps his hand a moment later, sudden and tight, Arthur jumps a little and Ariadne’s eyes snap open to glare at him, her tail whipping back and forth twice.

“You have to keep looking,” Morgana says, smile gone and eyes alight with frantic intensity.

Arthur swallows, but covers Morgana’s hand, gently pressing it between both of his own. He’s had years to get used to this, but even so the display never fails to make a shiver crawl up his spine. There’s something about Morgana when she gets like this, something that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

“Look for what?” Arthur asks quietly.

“Questions,” Morgana says firmly, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You have to start looking for the questions.”

Arthur sighs, knowing better than to engage her and unable to keep from pressing even so.

“What questions, Morgana, what are you talking about?”

She squeezes his hand, hard, grinding the bones of his knuckles together in a painful grip. 

“The questions that will lead to the answers.” She’s a little breathless now, clearly agitated. “But you haven’t started asking.”

Arthur holds her gaze, but it’s hard to recognise his sister beneath the madness.

“I’m asking now,” he says intently, rubbing soothingly at her fingers despite his sister’s crushing grip. “Morgana, what do you mean?”

But Morgana’s eyes have already flitted away, fixing back on her book. Her grip goes slack and her eyes don’t move away from the words on the page before her, almost as if she hadn’t stopped reading in the first place.

“Morgana?” Arthur asks, careful.

Morgana doesn’t answer and Arthur lowers his head, feeling suddenly defeated. When he pinches the bridge of his nose, Morgana slips her hand out of his grip and starts stroking Ariadne’s shiny black fur - the rhythm uneven, almost jerky. Arthur presses harder, his fingers digging into his skin, but it does nothing to ground him.

A hand lands on his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze, and Arthur looks up at Gwen’s sad smile.

“Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” she says gently. “She’ll be better then.”

Arthur nods and rises wordlessly, letting Gwen’s hand slide away. 

“I’ll do that,” he says, suddenly tired. “Please call me if she gets worse.”

Gwen nods and gives Arthur another smile. “I will.”

Arthur means to return it, but his lips won’t co-operate. He instead opts for another nod and, with one last look at Morgana’s vacant stare, he leaves.

*

When he steps into his own flat a minute later, the lights are on and so is the holo-projector, turned onto a random music channel. Merlin is puttering around in the kitchen, humming along to whatever song is currently playing, his voice nearly drowned out by the speakers. For a moment, Arthur simply lets himself look, taking in the way the blue robe undulates with Merlin’s movements, his hips swaying to the beat and his long fingers quick and nimble as he stirs whatever he’s cooked tonight. It smells delicious, though the mere thought of food is enough to turn Arthur’s stomach. 

“Oh!” Merlin says when he catches sight of him after a particularly vigorous twirl. “There you are. Dinner’s ready.”

“I’m not hungry,” Arthur says.

Merlin huffs, annoyed. “Did you eat out again? Seriously, Arthur, is it too much to ask-”

“Just put it in a pod,” Arthur cuts him off, voice harsh and sharper than intended. Merlin snaps his mouth shut and Arthur wants to take it back, follows it up with a weak, “I’ll eat it tomorrow.” Before making his escape. He’s in no state to deal with anything right now, least of all this convoluted _thing_ with Merlin. 

In his bedroom, Arthur yanks off his tie and shrugs out of his suit jacket, throwing both across the room without looking. Usually he’s very particular about keeping his street clothes off the bed, but today he can’t bring himself to care. He collapses on the mattress still in his dress shirt and slacks and pulls the closest pillow over his head.

Arthur knows he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, everyone always tells him not to, but Morgana had been _so well_. She’d been coherent and happy, baking Arthur muffins and snarking at him when he’d told her about work and his friends’ various escapades. A few weeks ago, Gwen had agreed to lower Morgana’s dose a little, seeing as there hadn’t been a screaming fit in almost two months and Arthur had really, stupidly, thought that it was a sign that things were getting better. But now Morgana is back to being vacant and unresponsive, babbling nonsense and losing herself within her own mind. 

Despite all reassurances, Arthur knows all too well that sooner rather than later, he’ll get a call in the middle of the night from a concerned Gwen, asking him to come down and help a hysteric Morgana calm down. And it isn’t fair, Arthur thinks - not caring how childish it sounds even in the privacy of his own head - not fair at all. Morgana is a good person, she deserves better than this. If there was any way, any way at all for Arthur to make her better, he’d do it in a heartbeat, no matter what it is. But Morgana has been seen by the best psychiatrists in the country, if not the world, and all of them said the same thing. Delusion, disconnection from reality - treatable yes, but incurable. 

Pressing the pillow tighter to his face, Arthur lets out a sound of frustration.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s asks softly from the vicinity of the door.

Arthur stiffens. “Get out,” he says, impossibly tired, his voice muffled and barely audible.

Merlin either doesn’t hear, or chooses to ignore him. Arthur’s pretty sure it’s the latter.

His bare feet are quiet, but Arthur can feel the warm presence of his body when he stops at his bedside.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

What Arthur wants is to yank Merlin down and into bed with him, which is exactly the reason why he needs him to get the hell away from him. He takes the pillow off, his fingers digging into it hard enough to hurt.

“Are you deaf?” he snaps. “Get. Out.”

Merlin regards him silently for another moment, before turning away and leaving without another word. Arthur almost calls him back, but bites down on his tongue instead.

He doesn’t know how long he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, but eventually he manages to scramble up and drag himself into the bathroom, chucking off the rest of his clothes and taking a quick shower before slipping into something more comfortable. When he gets back, Merlin is perched at the edge of his bed, dark blue fabric pooling around his legs and baring a pale calf. Arthur stares at him, aghast. He very much wants to scream, or rip that thing off him - preferably both.

“Wasn’t I clear enough before?”

“I brought you something to eat,” Merlin says, unruffled, pointing at a plate with food on the bedside table next to a glass of water.

Arthur scowls and folds his arms in front of his chest. “Fine. Is that all?”

“You know,” Merlin says slowly. “Sometimes it’s hard talking to people you’re close to and I get that you’ve got this thing about not appearing weak-”

Arthur bares his teeth, snarling.“I don’t have a _thing_!”

Merlin rolls his eyes, apparently completely unimpressed by Arthur’s temper. 

“Whatever.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, something soft about the way he looks at Arthur, making Arthur’s heart promptly go into over-drive. “What I’m trying to tell you is that if you need someone to talk to, I’m here. Okay? It’s practically in my job description.”

Arthur snorts, his fingers digging into his own arms as he presses them tighter to his chest like a shield. “Since when do you care about anything remotely to do with your ‘job description’?”

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t. But I thought it might get you to tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I don’t need to talk about my _feelings_ ,” Arthur scoffs, feeling his lips twist into something hard and mean. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Merlin says in that way that Arthur knows means exactly the opposite. 

He holds Arthur’s gaze, sharp and intent as though he can see straight into him, reading all the things Arthur so carefully guards there. It makes Arthur’s skin itch and he’s forced to fight down the heated flush creeping up from his neck towards his face. 

Merlin sighs. “Arthur, seriously. I’m no one. I’m not even human. When you’ve found out what’s going on, you’ll wipe my hard drive and I won’t even remember any of this. So if you ever need anything, if you’d like to show just a little weakness, for once. With me. Then that’s okay.”

The words sting. Like a slap to the face - or rather a stab in the gut. He deserves them, of course he does, after all the things he’s thrown at Merlin, all these vehement reminders of his place in Arthur’s life - not matter how untrue they actually are. It shouldn’t hurt so much that Merlin actually believed him.

Arthur keeps his face carefully blank, while inside he feels like a ship being beaten by a storm. He wants to tell Merlin _No, I couldn’t_ and other stupid, stupid things like _I wouldn’t want you to forget me_.

He wavers, balancing precariously on a wall that feels as though it’s crumbling out from beneath his feet. He sucks in a deep breath, then lets it back out and folds himself onto the bed beside Merlin, defeated.

“It’s my sister,” Arthur says quietly. “You know hat she’s…ill.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, shifting a little and ending up facing Arthur properly. It’s intimate, them sitting on Arthur’s bed, in a space where no one but Arthur has ever been, not even Sophia. “But I don’t know any details.”

Arthur presses his lips together. “There’s not a lot about it on the official sites, my father’s tried to keep it all as quiet as possible, but if you dig a little you should be able to find all the juicy details. Sophia,” Arthur swallows, the name tasting bitter and foreign on his tongue after avoiding it for so long. “She had quite a bit about it in her exposé.”

“It isn’t your fault, you know,” Merlin says softly and Arthur’s chest tightens painfully. He doesn’t know how they got from Morgana to Sophia, didn’t know how badly he’d needed to hear those words until Merlin said them just then. “She played you, you couldn’t have known.”

“I shouldn’t have trusted her, I-” He shakes his head.

“You made a mistake,” Merlin’s voice is firm, his eyes intent and soft all at once. “Everyone’s allowed to make mistakes, Arthur. You can’t be perfect all the time.”

“No,” Arthur mutters. “I’m not perfect at all, but I have to be. It’s what’s expected of me. I have this image that I need to uphold, this box where I have to fit.”

“Says who?”

Their hands are so close now, resting side by side on the coverlet, and Arthur wants to badly to reach out-

He curls his fingers inwards, digs them into the bedding, and doesn’t move.

“Everyone.”

Merlin lets out a breath. “Well they’re stupid and you shouldn’t listen to them,” he says firmly. “Arthur, this is your life. You only have one, don’t waste it on other people’s expectations of you.”

Arthur does’t know what to say to that, can’t say anything until the lump in his throat isn’t trying to choke him anymore. But the silence that stretches between them is somehow comfortable, devoid of expectation or awkwardness.

He glances at Merlin and finds him already looking, eyes steady and still nerve-wreckingly intense. Arthur quickly looks away again, clears his throat as he casts about for something to say, desperate to break the heavy mood.

“You know,” he says eventually. “You almost sounded…wise. Just then. I’m not sure if I’m not dreaming.”

Merlin snorts. “And you almost sounded like a decent human being,” he says, dry as dust. “Careful there, or I’ll think you’re losing your touch.”

Arthur glares at him, even as he feels something inside him ease and settle.

“Shut up, Merlin,” he snaps. “And what’s that supposed to mean, anyway?”

Merlin shakes his head. “You know, between your general emotional constipation and your feeling of entitlement-”

Arthur bristles. “I’m _not-_ ”

“You are,” Merlin insists, but there’s a softness to his mouth and in his eyes. “But you have a good heart, Arthur. Seems I wasn’t wrong, after all.”

Arthur has trouble concealing the hitch in his breathing, has to swallow before he can reply.

“You don’t know me.” He means for it to come out sharper, more defensive, but instead it’s hoarse and far too vulnerable.

“No,” Merlin says softly. “It’s kinda hard to, with you trying so much not to let anyone close enough to try.”

Arthur looks away. And when exactly has he become quite so truly fucked?

“Alright then, I’ll leave you to your dinner. You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

*

By the end of the week, Arthur’s nerves are worn so thin he fears he might snap any second with no provocation at all. He’s tired and overworked and his head is aching like hell. Unsurprising, seeing as the entire seven days have been filled with barely restrained shouting, ironing out other people’s mistakes and had culminated in a visit to his father’s office for a lecture on how he expected Arthur to prove himself better than his uncle and stressing, for the umpteenth time, _how important_ this launch was for the company. 

As if Arthur hadn’t known that.

That day after dinner, Arthur drags himself to his holo-desk and Merlin follows without complaining for once, which Arthur’s pathetically grateful for. His head still feels as though someone’s banging against his brain and his temples are throbbing in tandem. He dims the lights as he settles into his chair and Merlin tilts his head forward without prompting, letting Arthur gently ease the pin-cable into place.

“Why do you do it? Work yourself into the ground like this?” Merlin asks quietly and Arthur can feel Merlin’s eyes on him. He refuses to meet his gaze, keeping his own fixed onto the code in front of him. “It’s not like you need the money.”

“It’s not about the money.” Arthur unnecessarily moves around a few windows. He glances at Merlin out of the corner of his eye, taking in his intent gaze and the way his head is tilted backwards to better look at Arthur; his long, pale neck bared. Arthur wants to know what it feels like beneath his fingers, his mouth. He looks away quickly, trying to remember what they’d been talking about. He clears his throat. “I do it because it’s my duty.”

“Your duty to who? Your father?” 

Arthur can practically hear Merlin’s frown in his voice. He sighs, too tired to fight the ridiculous and ever growing urge to _talk_ to Merlin, to confide in him in a way that Arthur usually doesn’t feel comfortable with, not with _anyone_ , least of all someone who he hasn’t even known that long…or something. Does programming someone count as knowing them? 

In many ways, Arthur knows Merlin better than he’s ever known another person, but then again Merlin isn’t actually acting like any of the other M-RYS models, so maybe Arthur doesn’t know him at all. It’s rather frightening to realise that he _wants_ to know him, _really_ know him and what’s even more terrifying is that Arthur wants Merlin to know him, too. He just doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to actually let himself do it - put himself out there like this again after the one and only time it’d gone so horribly wrong.

It’d never been like this with Sophia, though. She’d been interested in him alright, coaxing information out of him in a sort of subtly relentless way. And Arthur had been blind and stupid and told her everything she wanted to know until there had been nothing left to tell and she’d dumped him to run off and publish her article. Arthur hadn’t known until he’d seen the headlines, had just about wrapped his brain around the fact that the person he’d considered someone special in his life had just left him with no other reason than _I’m sorry, it’s just not working for me anymore._  

But in that moment, standing shaky and sleep-deprived in his kitchen and clinging to the closest counter as he watched notification after notification flood in, Arthur had realised the extent of what had happened. Things that Arthur hadn’t deemed important enough to pay any attention to at the time suddenly made an awful lot of sense, in retrospect. All the times Lance had given him this sort of pinched smile, or Mithian had worried her lip with her teeth, or Elyan had said things like _She’s a bit of a bitch, yeah?_ in that honest way of his that he shares with his sister, and no one had contradicted him.

With Merlin, though, it’s different - bone-deeply frightening in its simplicity. And he doesn’t just want to tell Merlin anecdotes, or a list of things that have happened to him at some point, but things like this, here, now. Simple things like _I hate lying_ and gut wrenching things like _I think my father can’t stand the sight of me because I look like my mum_ or _Morgana used to be the only person in the world that gave me hugs and then she went mad and my father locked her away_.

“Yes, my father,” Arthur says finally, throat raw and his tongue struggling to form the right sounds, weighed down by the honesty of his words - both said and unsaid. He swallows, laps at lips that feel chapped and hard to move. “But also our customers. The people buying our tech…We’re responsible for it, we tell them that it’s the best and they believe us. They rely on us to give them the best we can and I don’t want to disappoint that. I want my word to count for something, so that when my assurances are plastered all over the media I don’t feel like a liar. I want to be sure that when people read them, when they buy what I worked on, that I’ve given it all I have and done the best possible job.”

Merlin’s staring at him, Arthur can feel the weight of his gaze, and when he turns to meet it, Merlin’s eyes are wide and shining with something Arthur can’t identify. Something that makes his heart constrict and beat wildly in his chest.

“That’s…” Merlin starts, then trails off, visibly fumbling for words.

And suddenly Arthur feels too exposed, his ears ringing with what he’d said and his chest seizing with the familiar panic. What the hell is he doing?

“Never mind,” he says abruptly and Merlin starts a little at his harsh tone. “It’s stupid, forget I said anything.”

“No.” Merlin shakes his head and rushes on, all the while looking at Arthur as though he’s something marvellous. “No, Arthur, it isn’t stupid at all. It’s a good reason…honourable.”

Arthur clenches his jaw and even if he could’ve forced anything past his throat, he wouldn’t have known what to say to that. It’s enough that his heart feels ready to burst, tendrils of warmth spreading through his body and making him feel slightly dizzy.

“But Arthur there’s more to life than work,” Merlin goes on softly. “It’s important you don’t forget that - that you allow yourself to have it.”

Arthur’s stare is fixed somewhere on his desk, the floor, anywhere but on Merlin. “Last time I tried that it didn’t work out so well.”

And when he feels the tentative touch of Merlin’s hand, a warm palm curving around the top of his socked foot, he all but stops breathing. Arthur doesn’t think anyone’s ever touched him there before - certainly not like this, with such an air of deliberate gentleness and for nothing other than to form a connection. Arthur feels hot with it, helpless and desperate with how much he wants, but he doesn’t let himself. He can’t.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur stands abruptly, shaking off Merlin’s touch and even though he’d steeled himself for the loss, it’s still like a punch to the gut. He clears his throat, again, but his voice still comes out hoarse.

“Maybe we should continue this tomorrow,” he says. “I’m tired, I think I’ll turn in early.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything and Arthur can’t bring himself to look at him, doesn’t want to know what he’ll find on his face. Instead he flees like a coward, and when he slips between his sheets half an hour later, he lets himself think about the sensation of Merlin’s hand, of what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t stopped there, but inched his palm upwards along Arthur’s calf and to the inside of his thigh. And when he grips himself, already hard and dripping and his fingers punishing and almost tight enough to hurt, it’s to the thought of Merlin’s warm hands, the artificial skin soft and dry against his own.

His orgasm is ruthless, shaking him to the core and forcing him to turn his head to bite into his pillow to stifle his desperate sounds. When he wipes away the evidence, his fingers are still shaking and he fervently tells himself it’s because it’s been ages since he’d last had sex, it’s because he’s stressed and wound tight and it has nothing at all to do with how it was the first time he’d let himself think about Merlin. It makes him feel like a liar.

*

It doesn’t get any better after that.

Merlin, who’s suddenly displaying a considerable amount of empathy for Arthur’s stress levels, is unusually obedient. He serves Arthur’s food hot and on time and settles next to him while he eats, giving him these sweet smiles that have Arthur swallow largely without chewing and trying very hard not to look at Merlin’s disgustingly beautiful face.

After having given in this one, damnable time, it’s even worse to keep up the constant flow of arguments inside his head. Merlin is _right there_ , all the time, appearing so very human and more real than anything else in Arthur’s life. Is Arthur projecting, could he be going insane? Sometimes, Arthur’s sure that he can see something in Merlin’s eyes, something that looks so very much like the feelings Arthur’s struggling with. Other times he’s entirely convinced that it’s all in his head, that Merlin is an android, despite all behaviour to the contrary, and that nothing good could ever come of this.

And it would be easier if living with Merlin weren’t so ridiculously comfortable.

But within only a few weeks, Merlin has managed to clutter Arthur’s coffee table, has re-arranged Arthur’s floating settees and managed to somehow carve a cut into one of Arthur’s counter tops in the kitchen - something that will ever be a mystery to Arthur, seeing as they are practically indestructible. Arthur tries very hard not to let his facade slip, careful to project mostly the instances where he wants to strangle Merlin’s very pretty, very long neck - not that it’d do him much harm, but Arthur is certain that at least it’d make _him_ feel better. But the truth is that most of the time Arthur is _content_. He’s so unfamiliar with the feeling that it’s taken him almost a month to finally realise that that’s what it is.

He likes the fact that his flat is no longer just a wide, empty space, likes the feeling that he isn’t alone. He enjoys eating proper meals and the fact that instead of his mind-numbing routine, he now has Merlin who always somehow manages to do something unexpected. He loves having Merlin sitting beside him while he works, his even breathing relaxing some of Arthur’s achingly tense muscles - and though he’s careful to scowl every time, he loves watching Merlin dance and sing in his kitchen, the holo-projector blasting sounds and colours in the living area.

And Arthur wants it, wants all of this. Wants more of it.

He’s also used to not getting the things he wants, so why is abstaining so incredibly _hard_?

*

“Merlin!” Arthur finds himself yelling on the evening before the launch party, upper body all but submerged between shelves as he rummages around in his dressing room. Freshly showered and irate that he’s in here instead of in front of his holo-desk, Arthur yanks his head out from between stacks of clothing and directs his hollering at the open door. “ _Merlin_!”

Merlin appears a moment later and, for whatever bizarre reason, seeing him standing right there in the space Arthur uses to dress and undress himself and clad in nothing but his blue robe, is startlingly intimate. Arthur thinks, a little dazedly, that it might actually be a good idea to get Merlin some proper clothes, that maybe it would help Arthur to stop thinking about how easy it’d be to part that stupid robe and slide it clean off Merlin’s slender frame.

Arthur clears his throat, fighting down heat and forcing his jaw into something tight and ill-tempered.

“What happened to my favourite jumper?” he asks, relieved when his voice comes out crisp with command.

Merlin blinks, visibly taken aback. “Which one’s that?” he asks.

“The grey one,” Arthur says, then realises that that information might not actually be as helpful as he’d first thought. “With the high collar.” He adds impatiently.

For a moment it looks as though Merlin hasn’t the faintest idea which jumper Arthur’s referring to, but then his expression shifts and his mouth twists in that certain way that Arthur _knows_ is a bad sign.

“Uhm…I might have, you know, burned it?”

Arthur stares at him, splutters, “ _What?_ How on earth-”

“I’m sorry!” Merlin cuts in hastily, but Arthur’s not in the mood to acknowledge his obvious contrition. 

“You _burned it_?” 

“It was an accident!” Merlin exclaims, clearly scandalised that Arthur had dared to imply anything different. “I was about to sort through the washing, but then something boiled over in the kitchen and when I went to look I was still holding the jumper, yeah?” He makes a vague gesture that could mean a whole range of related or unrelated things. “So when I lowered the temperature on the hob, the sleeve caught fire.”

“Caught-” Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, stopping himself from parroting back the words like an imbecile. He tries to breathe through the initial urge to grab the closest thing and throw it at Merlin’s head. “When did this happen?”

Merlin bites his lip and Arthur wants to hit him. With his tongue. Preferably horizontally and without any clothes on.

Arthur takes another deep breath and wonders if anyone would miss him if he crawled into a corner and never left his dressing room ever again.

“Last week?” Merlin phrases it like a question, as if Arthur had in any way been involved in this ridiculousness.

Arthur clenches his jaw, tight enough to make his teeth ache in protest. “And you didn’t think it necessary to mention this to me?”

Merlin looks suddenly indignant, the expression at home on his face after appearing time and time again. 

“I didn’t think you’d notice!” he says and Arthur doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that he actually seems to believe that. “You’ve got, like, a hundred jumpers in here!”

Arthur scowls at him. “I do not!”

“You’re right,” Merlin bites out. “It’s probably _two hundred_!”

“ _Mer_ lin!”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Merlin waves a hand in a poor imitation of Arthur. “Shut up.”

“You-” And Arthur can’t even bring himself to finish that sentence, too riled to even try and bother at something coherent. He throws a hand out, pointing at the door. “Get out. Out of my sight, _right now_.”

Merlin’s expression is stormy, his full lips pressed into an unhappy line, but he goes, free of protest for once. He also doesn’t sit with Arthur as he eats and stubbornly refuses to look at him when Arthur settles down at the holo-desk.

But when, after two hours, Arthur’s ready to fall face-first into his holograms and his eyes feel so gritty that he’s surprised his corneas haven’t started peeling off yet, Merlin appears at his side with his face set into something firm and determined. 

“Okay that’s it,” he says. “No more work for you tonight.”

Arthur looks at him, tired and worn to the core. “The launch is tomorrow, I need to go over the running order one last time.”

Merlin doesn’t budge. “No, you don’t,” he insists. “What you need is to pick a movie and sit down with me so we can watch it. Take your mind off things for a while.”

Arthur shakes his head, or at least that’s what he means to do. It ends up being more of a weird head-roll. “I’m not watching a movie with you.”

Merlin brushes a hand along the holo-desk, switching it off and banishing the legion of windows and holographs.

“If you’re not picking, then I am,” he says, and it’s clear that this isn’t something that’s up for discussion, no matter how much Arthur intends to protest. Arthur, though, suddenly finds himself not wanting to anymore, and so when Merlin makes a shooing gesture in the direction of the couch, Arthur sighs and heaves himself up on tired legs, stumbling a little as he goes.

Arthur ends up sprawled out over the cushions, his head resting barely an inch from Merlin’s thigh, soaking up his warmth. He keeps thinking about that little space between them, wishes he was brave enough to close it and almost misses when Merlin softly asks whether it really had been-

“- your favourite? The jumper?”

And Arthur, because he’s sleepy and comfortable and drunk on exhaustion and Merlin’s proximity merely mutters a, “Don’t worry about it.”

In the movie, something explodes, the sound of it reverberating through the floor. Arthur closes his eyes, tells himself _just for a minute, just to stop them from aching_.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, somewhere above him, and Arthur wants to ask _what for?_ because it’s a bit hard recalling what they’d been talking about in the first place.

And then he’s dreaming already, feels the softest, most tentative _something_ against his temple and brushing at his fringe. He leans into it, or at least he thinks he is, but his head feels very heavy all of a sudden so he can’t be sure.

When he next opens his eyes, groggy and disorientated, the blue-grey cover that usually rests, unused, on the back of his couch is tucked in around him and Merlin’s still right there next to him, reading. He feels good, Arthur realises, well rested and unusually light. He closes his eyes again, anyway. _Just for a minute._

*

The launch, thankfully, goes without a hitch.

Arthur gives his speech without a hitch and keeps his lips stretches into a wide smile that has his cheeks aching after the first hour. He carefully divides his attention between all the guests present and does his best not to let his facade falter even for a moment, knowing that the reporters would immediately latch onto it if he did.

There’s enough schmoozing to make Arthur feel ill and he gets so tired of his own voice he fears he’ll never want to say another word. He gets through the official memograph shoot with his father and manages to painfully smile his way through the dozens of interviews where he answers the same questions over and over and over again. The reporters manage to keep it clean enough, having been paid off by his father in advance to keep them from asking any personal questions - namely about Morgana or Sophia.

When everything finally wraps up around midnight, Arthur is knackered and wants nothing more than to get out of that blasted suit and stop smiling.

Despite his tiredness and the staggering feeling of relief that it’s finally over, he already knows that sleep is still a long way off. He hadn’t dared get drunk and his nerves feel far too frazzled to even attempt going to bed yet.

So instead of condemning himself to endless tossing and turning, Arthur makes his way back into the living area after a shower and plops down on the sofa, barely stifling a groan as he tries to get rid of some of the tenseness in his shoulders by rolling them a few times.

Merlin is watching him and Arthur meets his eyes.

“I think it’s your turn to pick a movie,” he says.

Merlin’s smile is bright enough to be blinding.

*

With the launch finally out of the way, Arthur slips back into a more familiar routine.

He meets Lance somewhere that isn’t his office, goes to a football match with Elyan, a poetry reading with Mithian and eventually gives into Elena’s nagging and accompanies her and Percy to the party of a friend’s friend’s cousin or whatever. He reasons that some time away from Merlin might do him good and maybe turn out to be exactly what he needs to get over his weird fixation - because, no, Arthur isn’t pining, not at all.

Instead, he finds himself thinking _I need to tell Merlin about this_ or _I wish Merlin were here to see this_. And somehow, with the promise of a relaxed evening on the couch with Merlin, watching a film or sometimes just whatever crap is currently on, making himself leave the flat is a lot harder.

Arthur tells himself it’s because he’s bored of partying - and, while marginally true, has nothing to do with the fact that the next time his friends ask if he wants to come out with them, Arthur tells them some nonsense about a queasy stomach and instead spends his night throwing popcorn at Merlin while they argue over what films to watch.

He’s also finally found the time to get back to a regular training schedule.

Arthur had been six when he’d first held a sword - albeit a very short one.

After Morgana had joined the football club at their school, leaving Arthur with endless boring hours to kill at home before she came back, he’d decided that he might as well join one as well. He’d liked football well enough, but didn’t want to seem like he was imitating his sister - Morgana would’ve never let him live it down.

So one afternoon, he’d sat down on his bed with all the serious air a six year old can master and carefully went through all the options.

He’d never much cared for swimming and most of the team sports sounded a little intimidating - though Arthur had very stubbornly kept that bit of reasoning to himself. Archery had sounded boring and, though Arthur enjoyed reading, he’d recently started borrowing Morgana’s books and he very much doubted that anything the school had to offer would be as interesting. His father already had him specially tutored in computer science, so he definitely hadn’t wanted to spend more time on that.

The most intriguing of them all had definitely been the magic club - full of exciting things like learning the runic alphabet and studying magical artifacts. But of course, Arthur’s father would never have agreed to that and so Arthur settled for sword fighting instead.

He’d been surprisingly good at it and by the time he was ten, he’d partaken in his first tournament. Morgana and Gaius had been there to cheer him on; his father had been unable to come.

Since having started working full time at Pendragon Enterprises, Arthur hadn’t had enough time to participate in any of the yearly tournaments, but he’d made a point of coming down to his training rooms every day to do some exercise and practice his drills.

When he’d fist set up the lower floor of his penthouse into training rooms complete with a personal gym and second bathroom, Arthur hadn’t really expected to spend this much time in it. Before his complete integration in the family business, Arthur had preferred to train in the martial arts centre of his university - sword fighting always more fun with an actual opponent. But after graduation and starting his job in earnest, there suddenly hadn’t been time for it anymore. There hadn’t been time for a lot of things, but Arthur had learned a long time ago that shutting up and getting on with things is the best way to go about life.

*

Another opponent - the only remaining one, Arthur knows - pops up seemingly out of nowhere, faceless and unrelenting, advancing on Arthur with a set of skilled, lightning fast movements. The faceless projection raises its sword, but Arthur recognises it for the feign that it is and doesn’t fall for it. Instead, he darts out of the way of the actual blow and swings his own sword in a wide arch, hitting the projection squarely in the shoulder.

After that, its easily dispatched and Arthur slices through it with a final burst of energy. The projection flickers and falls apart and Arthur grins, twirling his wrist - and his sword by extension - to ease the small ache of strained muscles there.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with his left hand, Arthur brushes his thumb across the touchpad along the quantic sword’s side and deactivates the forcefield that had formed his blade. He tucks the handle back into his belt and turns, surprised to find Merlin there, a glass of water in his hands. Arthur makes his way over, trying to gauge Merlin’s reaction to the demonstration and feeling instantly ridiculous at the unbidden desire to impress him.

Merlin grins at him, all bright eyes and dimples and Arthur melts a little. He accepts the glass, quickly gulping down half of it in one go, grateful for the excuse to look away and gather his wits. 

“So this is where you disappear to when you feel like hitting things,” Merlin says, his eyes taking in the training room.

“Be glad it’s not you,” Arthur says, feeling droplets of sweat sliding down the back of his neck and dampening his collar. He takes another greedy sip.

“Believe me, I am,” Merlin says, then nods towards the handle sticking out from Arthur’s belt. “So is this what you win all your tournaments with?”

Arthur hands the now empty glass back to Merlin and walks over to the bench where he left his towel.

“It’s my weapon of choice, yes.”

Merlin follows him, sitting down next to Arthur, his robe pooling around him on the low bench.

“Where’s all the trophies, then?” There’s gentle teasing in his voice, his eyes soft in that way that always makes Arthur a little breathless. “I expected a whole shelf full at least.”

Arthur shrugs, uncomfortable, not quite able to meet Merlin’s eyes.

“They’re somewhere in my dressing room,” he says and then, because apparently he can’t help himself around Merlin. “It’s not like anyone’d be interested in them, anyway.”

It comes out far too bitter and Arthur thinks he might just hit himself for his stupidity.

Merlin studies him intently from the side, but Arthur refuses to meet his gaze.

“I’d like to see them sometime,” he says softly and Arthur’s heart all but leaps from his chest and his head snaps up.

“Why?”

Merlin gives him another intent look, before his lips quirk. “Obviously I want to see what the fuss is all about. Why would anyone still want a sword when there's phasers?"

Arthur scowls, secretly relieved at being back on more familiar ground. 

“I’ll have you know, that sword fighting is a very respectable martial art.”

Merlin’s grin widens. “Or just a fancy way of saying that you want to hit stuff.”

Arthur gives him a glare, but it’s hard to hold on to it.

“It’s more than just _hitting stuff_!” he says. “Sword fighting is about form and durance. It’s about controlling and planning your moves and predicting what your opponent will do. It's strategy!"

Merlin raises his hands, laughing a little. 

“Fine, I get it,” he says airily. “It's about being able to tell yourself you’re clever while you’re hitting stuff!"

"Merlin!" Arthur says, outraged, even as he can feel his lips twitching into an answering smile. 

He shoves at Merlin's shoulder, easy and without thought. It's the sort of physicality usually only reserved for his friends, not something he does thoughtlessly and certainly not something he should be doing with _Merlin_. Not human, he reminds himself for the millionth time, but the words have become stale and meaningless and Arthur can’t bring himself to care one way or another.

He can feel his face shutter.

“Get dinner ready,” Arthur says, and it comes out sharper than he’d intended, edged with the desperate need to protect himself. “I’ll go and have a shower.”

When he stalks off, he can feel Merlin’s eyes following him, burning into his back and leaving his skin hot and tingling. In the shower, set to the water setting and as hot as he can make it, Arthur’s knees all but buckle as he comes, biting the back of his hand as the rush of water drowns out his chocked off moans.

*

When sleep eludes him that night, Arthur grabs his tablet from the bedside table and spends an hour browsing through his favourite fashion websites. He orders a ridiculous amount of new clothes, all of them in Merlin’s size, and tries very hard not to think about what the fuck he’s doing.

Sleep doesn’t necessarily come any easier after that, but it does come eventually and Arthur manages at least a few, fitful hours.

In the morning, Merlin greets him with a smile and Arthur seriously considers going straight back to bed. His heart thumps pathetically in his chest and he wishes he could shut it up somehow.

“I ordered you some clothes,” Arthur blurts out and promptly puts on his most haughty expression, as though it’s what he’s been meaning to say all along. “They should arrive today, so you can have a look what you like. We can send the rest back.”

Merlin blinks at him, bewildered. “Clothes?”

“Yes, clothes, Merlin,” Arthur snaps, angry at himself and Merlin and the universe at large. “You know, the things people wear so they don’t walk around naked. I can’t very well have you traipsing around in that ridiculous robe all the time.”

“So you aren’t sending me back?”

Arthur looks away, jaw clenched. “It looks like it’s going to take some time to find out what’s going on.”

Merlin’s hand on his arm is so unexpected it nearly sends Arthur flying off the stool in an undignified heap.

“Thank you,” he says, softly.

Arthur can only nod, voiceless in the face of the warm pressure against his skin, tingling even through the fabric of his shirt. He wants to shake it off, wants to clamp his own hand over Merlin’s and press his long, pale fingers so tightly to Arthur’s skin that they leave a mark that never fades again.

It’s terrifying and Arthur hasn’t a clue what to do with himself, so he stays as still as possible and does nothing at all.

*

He makes the decision while still high on the memory of Merlin’s touch - but, really, it’s not really a decision at all.

He files the report with as little hacking as he can get away with, manipulating Merlin’s product code and ID, before getting the confirmation that he’s now officially an owner of an M-RYS android. He doesn’t say anything to Lance about it, even though he knows he should. When he sees his father in the afternoon for a personal report, Uther already knows, which really shouldn’t come as such a surprise. His father always knows everything that goes on within the kingdom of his business and having someone like Nimueh as his PA only makes it easier to always be on top of things.

“I’ve seen that you’ve taken an M-RYS model for your personal use,” Uther says, drops it into conversation when Arthur has finished delivering endless sales numbers and a list of planned updates.

Arthur freezes a little, but does his best not to let it show. He clears his throat and pastes on a smile.

“You always said that it’s important for people to see us using our own tech,” he says.

His father nods and there’s this glint in his eye, the one he always gets when Arthur repeats his pearls of wisdom back at him in a from that means he’s living by his father’s philosophies. The hand that lands on his shoulder is heavy and unfamiliar, a little rough as it pats him firmly.

“I’m glad to see you’re learning,” his father says, smiling widely. “You’ll make a great CEO one day.”

Arthur thinks about all the times he’s craved his father’s praise, times where he worked himself into exhaustion with his studies or the projects of the company. He wonders if all the years of having this longing digging deeper and deeper into his chest has formed a hole so big that one simple remark in passing just isn’t enough to fill it. Or maybe it’s just become numb, because as hard as Arthur tries, he just doesn’t feel anything right now.

“Thank you, father,” he says, but it sounds as hollow as he feels.

His father doesn’t seem to notice and Arthur tries very hard to discern if the something that’s coiling in his chest is relief or anger.

After leaving his father’s office, Arthur makes his way down to the labs, seeking out Gaius to retrieve the android chip for Merlin, which would allow him access to the basic facilities in the city.

Gaius is deeply invested in what looks to be a minor crisis, at least five or six white-coated scientists flocking around him, all of them flapping their mouths and trying to talk over each other. Unwilling to get into the crossfire, Arthur leaves them to their discussion and crosses the room to Gaius’ work station.

Sure enough, the bracelet with the freshly pressed chip bearing Merlin’s ID on the packaging is waiting for him. He picks it up and is about to turn away and return to his office, when he catches sight of one of the open windows on the holo-desk.

It’s a list of chemicals, most of which Arthur struggles and fails to recognise, but enough to identify it as an order to the pharmaceutical firm in Escetir where they always purchase their chemicals. The order itself is unremarkable, if it weren’t for the half-hidden window beneath it. Carefully glancing about the room, Arthur quickly checks if anyone’s looking at him, but finds the few present employees either busy with their own tasks, or focused on the ever heating discussion in the middle of the lab. Convinced that he’s unobserved, Arthur tabs the other window and brings it to the front.

At first, he thinks it’s just another oder like the first one and he’s ready to snort at his strange gut feelings, when he realises that the order he’s looking at isn’t issued on the usual Pendragon crested template, but featuring an unknown business ID and a much shorter list of drugs. Frowning, Arthur risks another look around, before quickly whipping out his communicator and snapping a memograph, not daring to risk sending it for the fear that it might be discovered.

Stuffing the communicator back into his suit jacket, Arthur quickly tabs the window into the background.

“Can I help you, Arthur?”

It’s a testament to Arthur’s iron control that he doesn’t jump, merely straightens himself and flashes his token smile. Gaius raises his eyebrow, but not enough to be considered alarming. Arthur holds up the package with the chip.

“I just came to get this,” he says, carefully casual. “It looked like you had your hands full, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“That’s quite alright, my boy,” Gaius says, throwing a mildly annoyed glance at the still bickering group of scientists. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, that’s all,” Arthur says. “I’ll see you in two days for the meeting about the skin upgrades and the results on the newly tested retinas.”

Gaius waves him off. “Of course. Have a nice evening, Arthur, and remember not to overwork yourself.”

Arthur keeps his smile firmly pasted on his face as he reassures him he won’t, before finally making his escape, his communicator feeling as though it suddenly weighs at least ten times as much.

*

He finds Merlin in the kitchen, singing softly as he moves to the music while rinsing his hands. The blue robe is gone, and instead Merlin is clad in tight jeans and a simple tshirt, making Arthur’s mouth run dry at the way the clothes hug his form.

For a moment, Arthur wonders what would happen if he just stepped up to him and wrapped his arms around him. Would Merlin startle? Push him away? Or maybe…lean into him?

Merlin turns, and promptly jumps.

“Gods, Arthur,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Warn a guy, will you?”

Arthur clenches his jaw and stalks further into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water to give his hands something to do.

“Sorry,” he mutters, belatedly.

Merlin frowns at him. “You alright?”

Arthur puts the glass down on the counter, the sound loud now that the last song has finished and no new one starts playing.

“I need your help with something,” he says.

Merlin turns to him fully, his body close enough for Arthur to feel his warmth. He tries very hard not to stare at Merlin’s legs, unused to being subjected to them now that the robe is gone - the tight jeans leaving little room for imagination.

“You? My help?” Merlin says, a little incredulous. “Can I get that in writing?”

Arthur gives him an exasperated look, forcing his eyes to meet Merlin’s gaze. “Don’t be a clotpole.”

Merlin’s eyes widen a little. “That’s my word!”

“And it suits you perfectly,” Arthur shoots back, digging out his communicator and pulling up the memograph he’d taken before. “I need you to look at this list and tell me what these drugs are. Obviously I could do it on my own, but it’s quicker this way.”

Merlin just rolls his eyes, but obediently scans the list, his eyes going blank in that way they always do when he’s actively accessing his hard drive. Arthur has to look away, somehow unable to take seeing Merlin’s gaze so flat and glassy.

Barely a moment later, Merlin blinks and Arthur breathes an internal sigh of relief to see the fire back in his eyes, that spark that made him _Merlin_ and not just some other android. He hands back the communicator and Arthur returns it to his pocket.

“They’re all sedatives,” Merlin says, brow furrowed in confusion. “What does that mean?”

Arthur shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t know.”

*

The discovery about the sedatives lies heavily on Arthur’s mind.

Last night, he’d wanted to give Merlin his chip, wanted him to know that Arthur doesn’t want him gone. That he wants Merlin to stay with him, with or without a resolution concerning his strange technical make-up.

But after Merlin’s analysis, Arthur had felt his mood plummeting and somehow the moment just hadn’t seemed right then.

Arthur despises secrets, the strain of having to keep some already having put his stomach in knots, but it’s even worse knowing that someone is keeping them _from_ him and not do anything about it. He’s not one for lying quietly in wait and cunningly uncover everything behind people’s backs. Arthur has always preferred head-on confrontation and would like nothing more than to storm down to the labs and demand an explanation. 

And, really, there’s a great chance that there’s a perfectly plausible explanation for it all and that Arthur is just being stupid. Gods, he hopes that’s what it is.

But he also knows that alerting Gaius and his father that he knows something which he obviously isn’t meant to has the potential to end in a hefty reprimand and an explanation that’d possibly just be a well crafted excuse, while the truth is being pushed into a corner so remote that it’d take Arthur forever to find it.

Arthur trusts his father, of course he does, and there is even the small possibility that his father doesn’t know anything about the sedatives - though Arthur has to grudgingly admit that that’s rather unlikely. It’ll probably end up being nothing more than an experiment down in the labs, kept quiet until it proves successful, but it rather feels like a blow - not just to his pride, but his heart as well - that his father obviously doesn’t trust him enough to share this type of information with him. If there’s something going on in the company, then as assistant CEO Arthur has a right to know what it is. He knows his father is overprotective of both Morgana and Arthur himself, but this is not just personal, they’re running a business together - a business empire, really. How are they supposed to benefit Pendragon Enterprises if they don’t work together properly, as a team? After all the years being groomed for it, the fact that he’s given his life for the company just as his father had when he’d been Arthur’s age, does that not count for anything? Is that not worth his father’s trust?

After being promoted and put in charge of the M-RYS project, Arthur had really thought that his father finally considered him, if not an equal, then at least a worthy heir. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

*

When he comes home later that afternoon, it’s apparent that his day isn’t about to get any better.

Stepping into the living area, Arthur finds Merlin in his usual spot, reading. The novelty of seeing him in proper clothes hasn’t quite worn off yet. Dressed in dark jeans and a tshirt, he looks painfully human and Arthur wants nothing more than to peel him out of both and trace every newly exposed patch of skin with his lips. Arthur blinks and clears his throat, silently cursing himself.

“Merlin,” Arthur asks with forced patience. “Why are there fifteen crates of pineapple juice in the hall?”

Merlin looks up. “Uhm, you ordered them?”

Arthur fixes him with a _look_.

“You didn’t?” Merlin tries, his brow furrowing, visibly thinking intently. “But-” Then, as quickly as the expression appeared it clears, wiped away by sudden realisation, his full lips forming a perfect _oh_. “Ah…I think I know what happened.”

By now, Arthur is very familiar with Merlin’s sheepish-face. Much, _much_ more familiar than he would like.

“Well?” Arthur prompts sharply, trying very hard not to stare at Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin shifts uncomfortably and the fact that he’s practically squirming beneath Arthur’s glare is a dark source of pleasure for Arthur. It makes him feel better, somehow, knowing that he’s not the only one wishing to crawl out of his own skin.

“I was sorting through your personal emails the other day, so…” Merlin shifts again. “There might’ve been one about how drinking pineapple juice affects…you know-” Here, Merlin inserts a fumbling and entirely indiscernible hand-wave. “And there was this link and I just- But I didn’t know it’d do _that_!”

“ _Merlin_!” Arthur roars, the anger that had been simmering inside him ever since he’d found out that his father is apparently keeping secrets from him - and not to mention the ridiculous amount of sexual frustration and emotional…whatever he’d been going through lately - all of this finally seems to erupt out of him in one, thunderous rush.

“I’m sorry!” Merlin says, somewhere halfway between sincere and defensive. “How was I supposed to know that would happen by just _clicking on it_!”

“ _Fifteen crates!_ ” Arthur is still shouting, unable not to. “Crates of _25 bottles_ , Merlin! That means that there are _375 bottles of fucking pineapple juice in my hall_!”

Merlin ducks his head and Arthur wants to strangle him and kiss him stupid and that very fact is enough to make him even angrier.

“Can’t you just, you know, send them back?” Merlin asks, and it sounds almost meek.

“No, Merlin, I can’t!” Arthur snaps, his voice barely lowering before rising once more. “And if you’d taken the time to read the bloody small print _you’d know that too_!”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says again, soft and completely sincere this time.

And Arthur _still_ wants to kiss him, wants to throw him down on that damned settee and-

Terrified at his own thoughts and the knowledge that despite his anger he’s incapable of not wanting Merlin, Arthur uses the lingering rage as an opportunity to turn on his heel and storm off into the direction of his bedroom.

*

“Arthur?” Merlin says later, looking up at him from his position on the floor next to Arthur’s desk chair through those ridiculous lashes of his.

Arthur wants to reach down and sink his fingers into his hair, instead he gives him a withering look. “Fifteen crates, Merlin.”

Merlin visibly deflates and doesn’t say anything else.

*

One would think that because of Arthur's inability to sleep like a normal person, the little sleep he does get would be something akin to a coma where his body tries to take back all the rest its been denied. But that's not how it works. At all. 

Arthur's sleep is light and easily interrupted, his mind immediately switching into alertness at the smallest of sounds.

Years ago, Arthur had bought all these books on sleep schedules and dreams, had tried to find out a reason or a cure. There's nothing he hadn't considered from quack ideas of being the reincarnation of a medieval warrior, always ready to fight, to scientific explanations about the subconscious. But in the end it all came down to genetics; having a father with his own set of sleeping disorders and a sister whose madness manifests mainly through nightmares, it really isn't much of a surprise that Arthur is an insomniac.

So when his communicator goes off in the middle of the night, just after - it feels - Arthur has finally manages to fall asleep, it’s enough to make Arthur jerk awake and upright in one, dizzying move. Heart pounding, he scrabbles for the communicator, snatching it off the bedside table. Dread immediately pools in his stomach.

“Arthur,” Gwen says immediately after he picks up. Her voice is strained and in the background, Arthur can hear Morgana, can hear her flailing and shouting. “Can you please come down?”

“I’m on my way,” Arthur says, curt and rough with sleep, already up and across the room.

“Hurry,” Gwen says, then disconnects.

Snatching up the first tshirt he can find, Arthur tugs it on over his head. He doesn’t bother to change out of his sleeping pants.

Merlin jumps a little when Arthur comes rushing into the darkened living area.

“Are you alright?” he says, rising to his feet and looking ready to come to Arthur’s side. “What happened?”

Arthur doesn’t have time to explain, simply says, “It’s Morgana. I’m going down to see her.”

“Do you want me to come?” Merlin asks, following Arthur into the hall.

Arthur shakes his head as he calls for the ascender. “No need.”

He can feel Merlin’s eyes on him, but when he turns to meet them with his own, the ascender door has already closed.

Morgana is a mess, her long braid dishevelled and her eyes wild. She’s screaming nonsense, struggling against Gwen’s hold and her face is contorted and wet with tears. Arthur rushes over, sliding onto the bed behind his sister and wrapping his arms around her, both to restrain and soothe her.

“Hey,” he murmurs, straight into Morgana’s hair. It smells as it always does, fresh and flowery. Arthur hugs her closer. “Morgana, hey. It’s alright. It’s alright now, calm down, love.”

Morgana makes a sound like a wounded animal, struggles against his hold, before sagging in his arms.

“Arthur?” she asks, her voice thin and small like a child’s.

“Yeah,” Arthur says softly, daring to loosen his hold enough to be able to stroke her hair. “Yes, it’s me. It’s alright.”

Morgana shifts and Arthur lets her turn in his arms. Her face is pale and frantic and when she grips Arthur’s shoulders, her nails dig sharply into his skin.

“Keep looking!” she says, a little shrilly and as though they are in the middle of a conversation that Arthur has missed the beginning of. “You have to keep looking. Promise me! Arthur, you have to promise, will you promise? You have to, _have_ to!”

“Alright,” Arthur says, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. He puts his palms on her trembling back, rubbing it gently, if a little jerkily. “Alright, I promise. I’ll keep looking.”

Morgana scrabbles against him, her nails sharp on his arms as her fingers flitter across his skin, never quite settling.

“They’re sleeping,” she babbles. “So many of them, all asleep- asleep but not really resting. You need to wake them.” Her gaze whips back up, fixing Arthur with a wide-eyed stare. “Arthur, you have to wake them. Find them, wake them, find them, find- it’s down, you have to go down and wake them up. It glows and it’s cold and you have to, you have to…”

She’s shaking now and Arthur pulls her close, folding her into his arms and hiding his stinging eyes against her shoulder.

“I will,” he promises, blinking heavily. “I will.”

When he gently tips them onto the mattress and into a lying position, Morgana doesn’t protest. She’s more or less limp in his arms by now, but her fingers are white-knuckled where they’re holding onto Arthur’s shirt. He strokes her hair, murmuring nonsense in her ear, promising over and over things that he doesn’t understand the meaning of. And even when Gwen appears with a loaded hypospray, even after Morgana has gone still in his arms - her breathing evening out and her hold going slack - Arthur doesn’t stop his petting, curling around her as though that alone is enough to keep her safe from her own mind.

*

When Arthur finally stumbles back into the flat a mere hour or two before dawn, Merlin is waiting for him, his face pinched in concern. His eyes widen when he catches sight of Arthur and he sucks in a sharp breath. He tiredly watches Merlin come closer, meeting Arthur halfway.

He knows he must be quite the sight, exhausted and heavy limbed, unable to focus on anything. There’s a scratch along his jaw, red half-moons in the shape of Morgana’s fingernails scattered along his arms. Arthur hardly feels them at all.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, whispers, and his fingers brush the burning line on his face, it’s as unexpected as a touch as soft as this one can be.

Arthur wants to jerk away for the simple fact of how much he wants to press closer, wants his skin to know the feel of Merlin’s hands in a way that leaves an invisible imprint right beneath the surface - never letting Arthur forget it, ever. He shouldn’t but he’s too tired, too sick of pretending and so he simply closes his eyes, lets Merlin trace the angry scratch and allows himself to sink into the tingling feeling of Merlin’s touch.

“C’mon,” Merlin murmurs, then, and Arthur follows, even though he has no idea where to.

Merlin’s fingers slip away and Arthur barely has the time to feel their loss, before they wrap around his wrist instead, warm and soft and secure.

They make it to the bedroom and Arthur lets himself be pressed down onto the bed. He can’t find the energy to say anything, not when his throat is still sore from all the frantic soothing he’s been doing these past few hours. Merlin squeezes his shoulders, a gentle press of comfort, and then he’s gone. Arthur blinks, slow and confused, but by then Merlin’s already back and sliding easily onto the mattress next to him.

“Lie back,” Merlin says and Arthur does, falling rather than sinking into the pillows.

Something cool presses against his arm, runs along each angry mark with a gentle hum, and it takes Arthur an embarrassingly long time to realise that Merlin is applying a dermal regenerator to his skin.

“Merlin you- It’s just a few scratches. You don’t have to-” Arthur protests feebly, then runs out of steam. 

“Shut up and let me do this,” Merlin says, but his tone is gentle and without heat. “Not everything has to be a fight, you know.”

Arthur feels his lips twitch, involuntary and almost senseless.

“Have you still not got it?” he says, the words running together into something far less crisp than his usual tone. It makes him sound almost as vulnerable as he feels, but in his current state it doesn’t seem to matter. “I decide whether we’re having a fight or not.”

Merlin huffs, but by the way it lilts slightly at the end Arthur knows that it’s a sound of amusement more than anything else. He absently wonders when exactly he’s gotten this good at reading Merlin.

“You’re such a muppet,” Merlin mutters, heavy with affection and making warmth burst inside Arthur’s chest. He tilts Arthur’s chin, urges it gently to the side with a soft, tingling press of his fingertips. Arthur doesn’t even think, just follows the movement, feeling the familiar prickling sensation of the dermal regenerator against his jaw a moment later.

“Who even says that anymore?” Arthur asks, too tired to laugh but still feeling it clogging his throat a little. “I seriously need to revise your dictionary if that’s the best you can come up with.”

Merlin shifts the regenerator into a better position. “Would you prefer supercilious ass?”

Arthur feels his lips twitching stupidly. “That’s a big word, Merlin.”

“Isn’t it?” Merlin agrees easily, leaning a little closer to reach Arthur’s other arm and trapping the air in Arthur’s lungs at the warm feel of his body right there, pressed against Arthur’s side. “I chose it especially for you. Thought it might fit your ego.”

Arthur snorts. “Merlin-”

“Shut up?” Merlin cuts in and Arthur can hear the cheeky grin in his voice.

Arthur smiles, a little dopey and quite possibly a lot besotted, eyes still closed. “You guessed it.”

The soft sound of the regenerator being placed on the bedside table is almost drowned in Arthur’s sleepy haze and when he feels Merlin’s hand brush against his arm, he hardly registers reaching out his own - his fingers sliding against Merlin’s in a way that sends a hot shiver down his spine, his fingertips tingling as they press into Merlin’s soft skin.

“I really am sorry about the pineapple juice,” Merlin says, almost inaudible over both their breathing.

In a whisper-soft touch, Merlin brushes back Arthur’s fringe and Arthur leans into it without thought.

He falls asleep with the feeling of Merlin’s hand in his own.

*

The next morning, Arthur tries very hard to tell himself that _nothing happened_.

Which, of course, doesn’t explain why he can think of nothing but the feel of Merlin’s fingers around his own, or at the curve of his jaw or down the length of his arm. His skin is alight with the memory, buzzing with Merlin’s phantom touch and nothing Arthur does seems to get rid of it.

He also very vehemently tells himself that he and Merlin aren’t dancing around each other, even though Arthur catches Merlin staring more than once and he himself has to hastily jerk his gaze away a few times in the hopes that Merlin won’t notice he’s being observed in return.

The whole atmosphere is so loaded, that by the time evening rolls around, Arthur is all but vibrating with tension.

So when Merlin finally breaks the silence between them, saying something that isn’t an awkward combination of _Hey_ s and _yeah_ s and _What do you want to eat? - I don’t care_ or _Can’t you see I’m busy,_ Mer _lin?_

“Arthur,” he says, cutting right through Arthur’s efforts of looking busy as he taps away at his holo-desk. “What’s this?”

And Arthur looks up and finds Merlin standing there, just off the hallway, Arthur’s suit jacket in one hand and the still wrapped chip in the other and what is he even- 

But then Arthur remembers Merlin’s _I’m going to do laundry, yeah? Have anything specific you want washing?_ and Arthur, so very intent on making himself seem uncaring and immersed in his work, had just mumbled and absent _No_. Which is why Merlin is now holding the chip and Arthur isn’t ready, he isn’t ready to tell him, not yet, not-

“It’s a chip,” Arthur says, because he’s just that type of arrogant arsehole, unwilling to back down from anything. He clears his throat. _Be casual_. “Your chip, actually.” He shrugs and the movement makes his shoulders ache from how tightly his muscles are wound. “I meant to give it to you yesterday, but…”

He trails off stupidly, averts his eyes.

“My-” Merlin sounds breathy and Arthur can’t not look at him, needs to know what he looks like right then. “You registered me?”

And there’s no way that Arthur’s throat would work right now, so all he does is give a jerky nod.

“You-” 

But Merlin doesn’t finish and Arthur isn’t sure he wants him to and when he takes a step towards him, Arthur all but bolts upright, off his chair. But then he’s just standing there and it’s even more ridiculous and Arthur curses himself every kind of idiot, tries to change the whole action into a deliberate thing by walking over to the couch. Of course, then Merlin follows, draping the suit jacket over the back of the couch in a careless move that has it sliding off again a moment later, pooling into a dark heap on the floor.

Arthur hardly notices it, too busy trying to keep breathing as Merlin comes close, closer, sinks down next to him onto the cushions, all the while looking at Arthur as though he’s the only thing in the world.

And it’d be so easy, Arthur realises, so easy to just give in - to lean forward and bridge the distance and finally feel Merlin’s lips against his own. So easy to map out the shape of them, to press into Merlin’s mouth and let himself drown in him. And Arthur _wants_ , wants so badly and so desperately that his skin is thrumming with it and his lungs are so tight each breath is a painful, shuddery thing scraping his throat raw.

Merlin’s eyes are wide and very blue, and he tilts his head, his body tipping that tiny bit closer as though he can’t help it-

His breath fans out over Arthur’s face, warm and neutral and enough to slam home all the reasons Arthur has so carefully listed why this is such a terrible, _terrible_ idea.

The barest brush of Merlin’s fingers leaves a burning trail on Arthur’s knee and Arthur shoots off the couch, barely missing the coffee table as he scrambles away, away, _away._ It’s a move born from panic, from the instinctive urge to protect a heart that he knows is disgustingly weak and far too fragile. A heart that he knows he wouldn’t be able to ever retrieve once he gives it away.

He’d thought it gone before, once with Sophia, only to find out that it was still there, right where it always had been - if slightly worse for wear and with a lingering scar or two. But this, here, _Merlin_ \- it’s different. Different and so much more dangerous, if only for the fact that when Arthur sees the hurt on Merlin’s face, when he sees the fingers that had tried to touch Arthur only moments before clench into the cushions until they turn white-knuckled and shaking, Arthur can’t bring himself to care about anything else. Right now, Arthur would gladly hand over his useless heart and have it shattered right in front of his eyes, if only to keep that horribly devastated look off Merlin’s face.

And that, right there, is the most dangerous thought of them all.

“I’m going out,” Arthur says curtly, past a tight jaw. It comes out harsh and angry, anything better than letting Merlin see how terrified he is right now; how terrified he _always_ is when it comes to Merlin.

Merlin’s eyes are wide, overly bright, and he rises, gets to his feet and reaches out a visibly shaking hand towards him. “Arthur-”

But Arthur doesn’t listen, _can’t_ and instead flees like the coward he is. Rushes from the room, the flat, the _building_ and just keeps on going. He thinks putting some distance between them might be enough to make him at least feel like he can breathe again, but his heart won’t stop hammering and his chest doesn’t ease and all he can think about is Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_.

*

In retrospect, going out and getting drunk in his state might not have been the best idea after all.

The lights are blinding, the music deafening and the club hot despite the excellent environmental controls. There are smiling faces everywhere, people greeting him with enthusiastic squeals and firm claps to the back. Arthur doesn’t even recognise half of them, but grins back all the same, bright and false. He makes his way through the room, following instinct rather than sight, his view blocked by the hundreds of wildly dancing people flailing and jumping on the dance floor.

In the centre, the virtual singer of the current song is undulating to the beat, her hips moving suggestively as she towers over the club’s patrons. Along the edges of the dance floor, equally lager than life projections are performing complicated choreographies - some alone, some writhing against their holographic partner. Arthur skilfully avoids hands armed with drinks and takes a shortcut by passing through the legs of one of the projections, finally spotting his friends crowded around their usual table.

Percy and Elena are dancing wildly at the edge of the dance floor, Elena singing along at the top of her lungs as she flails about. Mithian and Elyan are seated at the table, apparently trying to have some sort of conversation that seems to mostly consists of a lot of invented sign language and _what_ s shouted in each other’s ears. Even Lance is there, apparently Arthur had sounded desperate enough to warrant his presence.

He slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulders when he comes to stand at his side.

“You okay?” Lance asks, leaning close enough to be heard over the thumping beat of the music. “Gwen told me what happened.”

Arthur gives a terse nod, not willing to elaborate. Lance gets the message and doesn’t ask again, instead tugging Arthur towards the bar.

With every drink, Arthur tells himself that he’ll stop thinking about Merlin. It never ends up happening.

Sometime later, when Arthur’s shirt has glued itself uncomfortably to his sweaty back and he’s sure that his fringe must be sticking up at an odd angle from all the times he’s brushed his damp hair from his forehead, he decides that now is as good a time as any for a break.

He makes his way towards one of the outside platforms, his legs no longer quite steady. Lance comes with him, because he’s a hopeless mother-hen, but Arthur doesn’t protest his presence. Being alone with his thoughts is not the best thing at the moment.

The air outside is biting with the lingering chill of winter, but spring is not as far off as it had been a few weeks ago. They stand together in silence for a while, looking out at the busy entertainment district, watching several hover-cars fly by, filled with people screaming the kind of imagined wisdom that only comes with too much drink out of their open windows.

“What do you do,” Arthur says suddenly, drunk enough for the words to squeeze past his dry throat, but not drunk enough to regret them in the morning. “When you want something you know you’re not supposed to?”

Lance considers him, his eyes clear of drink and his air of thoughtfulness unchanged even after hours of deafening music and blinding lights.

“I’d ask myself who it is that’s judging me,” he says softly. “Who’s to say what one can and cannot have?”

“I think that if I told anyone, they’d think it wasn’t real,” Arthur says quietly, the words hurting with how true they are. “They’d say it’s impossible and that I’ve lost my mind.”

“Does it feel real?” Lance asks, mild and simple.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “It’s,” he breathes in sharply, and that hurts too. “Nothing’s ever been so real before. Not even…not even back then, when I’d been so sure. But that’s just it, isn’t it. Maybe this isn’t the last stage, maybe it’s all meant to fall apart again like it did then. What if it’s another a lie?”

“What if it isn’t? Are you ready to throw away a chance at it on speculation alone?” Arthur doesn’t answer, his fingers clenching around the bannister in front of him. Lance studies him, picks up the thread of conversation again a moment later when it’s clear that Arthur won’t be forthcoming. “I know you thought it was real back then, but was it right? Did it feel right, in your heart?”

Arthur tightens his hold on the cold metal, feels like it’s the only thing holding him up at this point. His knees feel weak and his lips are chapped and dry as he laps at them.

“I thought it did,” he whispers. “At first I thought, but- no. No it’s never been like this before.”

Lance gives him a small smile, his voice mild when he says, “I think you’ve just answered your question.”

And Arthur thinks that yes, yes he has and then wonders, desperately, why that doesn’t seem to have changed anything. A sudden wave of longing crashes over him, staggering in its intensity, and all Arthur can suddenly think about is that he wants Merlin, wants him here with him right now. And it’s too much, too-

“Let’s go back inside,” Arthur says abruptly, voice raw but firm. “I need a drink.”

Lance gives him a look that speaks volumes, but doesn’t protest, obediently following Arthur back in and all the way to the bar.

*

It’s too silent, Arthur decides as he stumbles from his car towards the private ascender.

Without the deafening music and thumping beat of the club, Arthur’s thoughts are far too loud inside his head and there’s just…too many of them.

Arthur curses, the words coming out slurred and barely audible through the lingering ringing in his ears. He waves his hand in the vague direction of the scanner, misses by a great arch and instead bangs his knuckles against the metal door. It hurts, but at the same time its somehow the most hilarious thing ever and Arthur is laughing before he even knows what he’s doing. Pawing at the scanner, Arthur finally gets the ascender’s door to open and staggers inside. It’s cool, the door, all smooth and metal-y and Arthur presses his face against it, snickering stupidly-

Until the door slides out from under him and he falls into his flat, arms flailing and feet unsteady, barely catching himself from smacking face-first onto the floor. And ha, that- that’s hilarious as well. The momentum carries him forward and more breathless giggles escape his throat, until it’s suddenly hard to stop and find his footing, the coatrack so much closer than a moment before. Arthur wonders, dazed and maybe a little cross-eyed, if he’s going to crash into it when a pair of arms catches him, saving him from being brained by the coatrack.

Arthur flails some more, surprised.

“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice says. It’s quiet, but alert and Arthur tries to turn towards it, but the arms around him tighten and hold him in place with surprising strength. “Stop it. Gods, how much did you have to drink?”

Arthur stops, then tries to give that question serious consideration. “I had something pink - actually there was a lot of pink - lots and lots! Elyan thought it was funny, he was laughing a lot. So was Percy. And I think there was something green as well? Something green and-” he breaks off, his train of thought suddenly lost. He blinks, then picks up a different one instead. “It’s all your fault, anyway.”

Merlin is warm, a solid presence pressed all along his side and his arms locked in a secure hold around Arthur’s waist. Arthur can feel his breath and shivers a little. Merlin’s grip tightens and Arthur leans into him, unthinking. It makes the world spin just a little less.

“How is you getting pissed my fault?” Merlin asks, more warm breath washing over Arthur’s ear. 

Arthur wonders what it would feel like against his lips, wonders what it would be like to inhale just as Merlin exhales - would that mean having a little bit of Merlin inside him? Arthur shivers again and turns his head, wanting so much he’s aching with it.

Merlin’s eyes are wide and intense, even in the dimness of the room and Arthur realises, for the first time since coming in, that the lights haven’t switched on. He frowns. 

Outside, in front of the living room windows, a hover car passes by, briefly illuminating the space between them, before they are plunged back into darkness.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks softly, his gaze never leaving Arthur’s face. “Why is it my fault?”

This time, when Arthur tries to turn, Merlin lets him. Arthur steadies himself clumsily, fitting his fingers around Merlin’s slim hips. He can feel the hem of his tshirt and only barely stops himself from sliding his hands beneath it, his palms itching with the need to touch Merlin’s skin.

Arthur tries to remember what Merlin just asked him, but his brain isn’t cooperating. It feels like slush - very gooey, fuzzy slush.

The greenish glow of the hover-tracks outside create strange, shadowy patters along Merlin’s cheekbones, his jaw, the long curve of his neck. Arthur follows them, traces them with his eyes and, once he’s started, somehow can’t make himself stop again. His gaze is drawn in by the soft dip right above the collar of Merlin’s tshirt, where the shadows indicate the beginning of his collarbone. Arthur wants to put his lips there.

And right now, he really, really can’t think of a reason why not to.

He takes a step closer, shuffling and clumsy, and ends up walking straight into Merlin’s chest. Merlin lets out a surprised sound and they’re both stumbling now. Arthur, who is far from a lightweight and lacking every bit of his usual grace, crashes into Merlin and ends up pressing him into the wall just off the hall. His nose is pressed in close to Merlin’s neck, the skin soft and warm. Arthur nuzzles even closer and takes a deep breath, taking in the smell of his detergent on Merlin’s clothes.

“Arthur,” Merlin says and it sounds breathless. There is a fluttering touch to Arthur’s left shoulder. “You’re drunk. I- We should get you into bed.”

Arthur shifts and angles his body, aligning them in a way that fits them together like two pieces of a whole. Arthur likes the thought. Maybe that means that Merlin is as lost without Arthur, as Arthur is without him. Would serve him right, Arthur thinks petulantly.

“What would?” Merlin asks, clearly confused and Arthur realises that he’s slurred that last bit into Merlin’s skin.

“If you couldn’t live without me,” Arthur mumbles and feels Merlin suck in a sharp breath. It’s even darker now- and oh, that’s probably because his eyes have closed. Can he go to sleep here? “Can I sleep here?”

The fluttering touch at his shoulder is back, then firms into the press of a palm fitting against the curve there. And then there’s fingers in his hair, cradling his head and holding it in place against Merlin’s skin. Arthur sighs and presses his lips where a pulse should be beating, but there is nothing but warm smoothness there. He doesn’t care.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Arthur mutters and it’s not meant to sound as desperate as it does. “You weren’t mean to- I can’t-” He breaks off, the air in his lungs stuttering on the next exhale. The next part is nothing more than a pitiful mumble. “I think about you all the time. All the time, it’s- Why can’t you stay out of my head?” And then, just because he wants to, because right now there are no reasons why he can’t, he says _Merlin_ and then again, and again, loving the feel of it on his lips, the shape of the syllables in his mouth. _Merlin_ against the soft warmth of Merlin’s throat, his tongue heavy and his heart even heavier. _Merlin_.

And Merlin’s chest expands, pressing against Arthur’s as he takes another deep breath. The fingers in Arthur’s hair shift, burying deeper, and something brushes Arthur’s cheek, soft and fleeting along with a warm rush of breath.

“I’m here,” Merlin whispers, pressing him close, hugging tightly. “Arthur.”

Arthur sighs and doesn’t say anything else. It’s suddenly far too much effort. His lids are so, so heavy, far too heavy to try and peel them from his eyes again and the world is spinning, even here in the dark - and Arthur is convinced that if he lets go of Merlin, he’ll spin away somewhere and never find his place in this world ever again. His place, which is right here in Merlin’s arms. Merlin who’s so close, so warm and Arthur has never felt safer in his life and he never, ever wants to move again.

And even though there is no pulse beneath his lips, the beat of Merlin’s QuanticHeart is steady and real and right there, against his own, human one.


	2. All Systems Go

**Part II: All systems go**

Some people cannot remember things after particularly intense benders. Arthur is not one of them, never has been.

Which means he spends the next four days skilfully avoiding Merlin, while trying very hard to pretend that he isn’t.

He calls Mithian and drags her out to the cinema, claiming that there’s this movie he wants to see - the title of which he’d quickly looked up on the top-ten list of the films currently running. Mithian, thankfully, doesn’t comment on the strange choice and refrains from commenting on Arthur’s general distractedness and the fact that he probably looks as though he hasn’t slept in a week.

He drags Lance out for drinks, claiming that they hadn’t had any time together recently and proceeds to tell him nothing at all about all the things eating away at him. The fact that he feels like talking about them at all shows what an abysmal influence Merlin’s had on him.

He visits Morgana, hangs out with his friends, does anything to avoid his flat at all costs.

He fridges the food Merlin cooks for him to take to work the next day and rushes from the flat after barely even finishing his coffee.

Merlin hovers and sometimes he’ll say Arthur’s name in that particular way, making it sound like an argument all by itself - infusing it with meaning in a way that makes it ring with all the things unsaid between them.

But Arthur pretends he doesn’t hear, cuts him off with things like _Not now, Merlin, I’m busy_ or _I’m tired_ , before stalking off, leaving Merlin standing there, alone and indignant, fleeing to his bedroom to give himself over to hours of sleepless tossing and turning; with the night stretching endlessly before him and no step closer to detangling his messed up feelings.

*

On the fifth day, Arthur comes home to an empty flat.

At first he thinks Merlin has just had enough of him and moved from his usual place in the living area to the spare bedroom, but after Arthur goes through every room - even looks into his en suite with an ever growing feeling of franticness, and asks Elba, he realises that Merlin is actually, truly gone.

Arthur sucks in a few shaky breaths and starts his tour of the flat anew, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Everything is spotless, the laundry tube empty and all of Arthur’s clothes freshly washed and put away in his dressing room. The bed is newly made, the sheets straight and crisp. In the living area, the coffee table has been cleared and the settees moved back into their original formation. The ereader that Arthur has come to refer to as Merlin’s is neatly tucked away in its place on the shelf.

Chest so tight Arthur can barely breathe around it, he wanders into the kitchen. There’s no meals waiting for him, neither on the counter top nor in the fridge. If it weren’t for the additional clothes in the guest room and the scratch in one of the counter tops, it’ll almost be as though Merlin had never been there at all. Feeling lost, Arthur slowly steps up to the counter and traces the scratch, digging his fingertip into the groove until it hurts, wishing it would distract from the painful feeling of his heart shredding itself in his chest. It doesn’t.

Arthur could find him, of course. Merlin still has his chip, after all, the one that officially registers him as Arthur’s android, but Arthur doesn’t reach for his communicator, does nothing at all. For all his harsh words and insistent thoughts on the matter, Arthur had never considered Merlin his android - which is exactly the problem. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what the fuck happened, but Merlin is a person with thoughts and feelings, feelings that Arthur has stomped all over in his desperation to protect a heart that is no longer his in the first place. 

No, Merlin isn’t his android and, most importantly, Merlin isn’t his.

That night, Arthur doesn’t bother going to bed, just settles on the couch with the holo-projector on at low volume. He stares at it, unseeing, quietly hating himself. It’s also the reason why, when the door to his private ascender opens, Arthur is right there, sitting up to see Merlin come into the room as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Arthur is up and off the couch in seconds.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Merlin looks at him, face tight and unreadable the way it only gets when he’s truly angry.

“Oh,” he says, cutting. “You’re actually acknowledging my existence. Must be my lucky day.”

Arthur is torn, angry at himself and this whole fucked up situation and so relieved he can barely keep standing. But anger wins out, of course it does, because Arthur is vulnerable like this, so much so that he can’t stand it.

“Is this a joke to you?” he grits out, offence as his only defence.

Merlin’s eyes are bright, his bottom lip trembling just barely.

“No, Arthur,” he says, the words edged with something brittle even as desperate anger clings to them as he goes on. “If it were a joke, it stopped being funny around the time when you started behaving like an arsehole, first acting as though you gave a shit about me and then suddenly pretending I don’t even exist! And I’m not even counting the fact where you said all those _things_ , things I’ve been wanting to hear for weeks only for you to treat me as though I’m nothing the next morning! So no, Arthur, it’s not a joke, I’m certainly not fucking laughing!”

The words are like a punch to the gut and Arthur wants to say something, but no words will come, all that stumbles from his mouth is, “Merlin-” But it breaks off after that, his throat drying out.

Merlin gives him a stormy look, hurt and angry, and it makes Arthur feel like the most despicable thing on the planet. His jaw is working, clearly trying to hold back whatever it is that’s waiting to burst forth and Arthur’s afraid to hear what it is.

Apparently he’d been right to be.

“I’m in love with you,” Merlin finally blurts out, the words sounding more like an accusation than a love confession, but hitting Arthur all the same.

“Merlin,” he breathes stupidly, once again out of words, but Merlin doesn’t seem to care either way, the floodgates apparently now open as his tone takes on a desperate edge and he pours them all out.

“I’m in love with you, Arthur,” he says again, but this time it’s softer and Arthur can tell that it hurts, the knowledge of it flaying Arthur twice over. “And I’m sorry I’m not what you want, I’m sorry I’m not… _more human_. I don’t know what’s going on, I wish I did, I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. All I can say is that this, all of this, _you_ \- It feels real. To me. There’s nothing that’s more real to me than this. So I thought that if I go, if I leave here and you don’t blink an eye about it, if you don’t care that I’m gone, then at least I’ll know. But you _do_ care, don’t you?” He sounds so small, so hopeful that Arthur cannot possibly lie to him now. “You- You care…about me. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, voice like gravel, the word barely making it past his dry lips. He licks them. “I care. Of course I do.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” Merlin is openly pleading now and Arthur feels like a giant fist is squeezing the life out of him, grinding him to dust. “Stop avoiding me and _talk to me_.”

“I-” Arthur swallows. _I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can._ He looks away. “I thought you’d left.” His voice comes out far more vulnerable than he intends and he cringes, but forces himself to go on. “Me. I thought you’d left me. I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Merlin lets out a breath and Arthur wants to look at his face, but he’s scared of what he’ll find there. And then Merlin’s right there and before Arthur even knows what’s happening, Merlin’s arms are wound around his neck and he’s hugging Arthur. Not just a friendly hug, but a full-on embrace with every inch of their bodies pressed tightly together and Merlin’s cheek soft and warm against his own, Merlin’s hair tickling his nose.

Arthur has frozen in place, can’t do anything but stand there and let it happen.

“I wouldn’t,” Merlin whispers, his breath washing over Arthur’s ear and making him shiver. “Arthur, I wouldn’t. I’d never leave you. I just wish you’d believe me.” He turns his head, their cheeks brushing as Merlin ghosts his lips against his jaw. “I wish you’d trust me.”

And then he lets go and Arthur wants to stop him, wants to bring his own arms up around Merlin the way he’d done almost a week ago. It had been so easy then, drunk and for once unable to think too clearly, simply falling into it and doing what he felt was right. But now, stone-cold sober and with what feels like the entire world on his shoulders, Arthur can do nothing.

He lets Merlin go, watches him disappear down the hall and into the guest room.

Arthur shivers, suddenly cold, and the thought of his own empty bed is unbearable. So he crawls back onto the couch, beneath the cover, and drags it over his head until he can’t see anything at all and, hopefully, the world can’t see him either.

*

It takes Arthur two more days before he finally, _finally_ gives in.

He’s stopped avoiding Merlin, though he isn’t talking to him either. He isn’t sure what Merlin is thinking, but he doesn’t press Arthur and keeps so much respectable distance between them that it’s painful. Throughout it all, Arthur clenches his teeth, his chest holding an ache so deep he thinks it’ll never leave him again. But if the days are bad, then the nights are worse. Falling asleep, which for Arthur is a chore at the best of times, now feels like something entirely unattainable; a sea so wide it has no end and no way across.

On the first night, he considers getting drunk, but the thought alone makes him feel sick. Too tired of everything - and most of all himself - Arthur doesn’t even bother trying to go to bed the next day and instead sneaks downstairs.

Morgana’s room is never completely dark, the curtains never drawn. She’s never liked not seeing the sky, not even _before_.

Arthur tries to be quiet, placing his feet carefully and making his way through the room and around the bed with the aid of the city lights shining in. The smooth silk of Morgana’s coverlet reflects the greenish hover tracks from outside, the light shifting strangely when Arthur puts his weight on it as he eases himself onto the bed, on top of the covers. The sheets are cool, sleek, almost like water, but Morgana is warm when Arthur shifts onto his side and incidentally closer to her.

He lets the air rush from his lungs, his limbs settling heavily and his eyes already drooping.

Morgana opens her eyes, pinning him with an intent look.

Arthur jumps, startled, and almost shoots up from the bed, but Morgana stops the movement with a gentle hand to his arm, her fingers curling into his sleeve and holding fast. Arthur lets out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

It’s instinctive, his tone matching the one he’d used to adopt whenever he’d crawled into his sister’s bed when they were still children. And right then, in the dark and with Morgana’s hand warm and familiar at his elbow, she almost looks the same as she had then and just for a moment, Arthur lets himself believe that it’s true. Lets himself believe that Morgana is still the same as she’d been before her nightmares had robbed her of her sleep, of her sanity. Before their father had let her be taken away and locked up for a year.

“You didn’t,” Morgana says, equally soft. Her eyes glint as she shifts, curling just a little closer. Arthur wordlessly shifts his arm, snaking it around her waist and leaving it there, a solid point of contact. “I knew you’d come.”

Arthur smiles sadly, but doesn’t contradict her. He’d learned a long time ago that it’s better this way, that trying to call her out on things only leads to her growing desperate and vicious, to screaming and crying, and Arthur doesn’t want that. It’s another thing their father had never truly understood, which is one of the reasons he so rarely visits her.

“You have to stop fighting, Arthur,” she says, unblinking.

Arthur bends his free arm, shoving it beneath silky pillows.

“Stop fighting what?” he asks, exhausted but strangely soothed by her voice.

Morgana squeezes his arm. “Your destiny,” she says quietly, earnestly. “Sometimes every road will lead you to the same destination. So don’t resist it, because there’s some things we cannot change and when that happens, we need to embrace them and learn from them.”

Arthur frowns. “We make our own choices, Morgana. We can’t use fate and other such nonsense to dictate our lives, nor use them as a way to excuse when we choose wrong.”

Morgana smiles, small and almost imperceptible with only the faint light from outside outlining her face.

“Well said, dear brother,” she says, an edge of good-natured mockery in her tone that Arthur hasn’t heard in a long while. “It’s almost as though you’re growing up.” She grows serious again, her smile suddenly gone and her stare back to being intense. “But Arthur, different choices don’t always mean a different outcome. It’s important you remember that.”

“Morgana-”

“Hush,” she whispers, sounding suddenly far away. But when she touches his cheek, it’s warm and steady, as are the lips that she presses to his brow. “Try to sleep now.” And then, when Arthur’s eyes are already closed, when his breathing has eased and he’s on the very verge of slipping under, he thinks he hears something else, something that sounds very much like “Running from his love won’t make it any less, so stop being an idiot.”

But that’s probably Arthur’s own mind talking, because there’s no way Morgana knows about Merlin.

*

Work is gruelling and Arthur can’t be arsed about any of it.

He muddles his way through the day, listlessly hacking around the database to find some hint as to why Pendragon Enterprises would order a whole list of sedatives - or any sedatives at all, for that matter - but his heart isn’t in it.

Lance keeps giving him knowing looks and Arthur, as much as he loves him, feels like strangling him. He knows he’s spoiling for a fight, tense as he is, and Lance probably knows it as well, which, Arthur suspects, is also the reason why he doesn’t actually say anything.

After getting absolutely nothing done, Arthur gives up and leaves the office early for the first time in years. He sets the controls in his hover-car to manual and steers it into the opposite direction of home. He’s sick of brooding in his own four walls and even sicker of his office.

He doesn’t keep track of where he’s going, simply takes turns as he fancies them and follows one track, then another. Driving through at least half the districts, he ends up in a part of Camelot that’s only vaguely familiar. Sighing, he tells Elba that she should log the route for home and Arthur follows her instructions, turning away from the industrial district and heading towards the residential.

When he gets home it’s late, far later than Arthur had expected, well past midnight.

He can see Merlin already, can see him as he gets off the ascender and hangs up his coat. He’s curled up in his usual place, but the ereader lies abandoned on his lap and his eyes are trained on the city outside. Merlin’s face is cast in shadows, but his eyes are glinting in the darkness and the blue light from the aquarium only serves to make him look even more ethereal.

Arthur thinks that now, after everything, the final step to surrender is easy, the easiest thing in the world, really - all the endless things Arthur has been telling himself suddenly empty and meaningless. It’s all so insignificant now that he’s here, looking at Merlin and having heard him say that he loves him; so unimportant compared to the fact that if Arthur only lets himself, he can finally have what he’s wanted so very badly.

So Arthur stops fighting and makes his decision, for good. For once, there’s something that’s just about him, just Arthur. Not his father’s heir, not the son he’s supposed to be, not the brother he’s trying so hard to be and constantly thinks is failing his sister - not even about the side of himself that he shows his friends. This is about _him_. Merlin wants him, just the way he is, not because of _what_ but _who_ he is. There’s no worrying about Merlin discovering his fucked up family, his tendency to work himself into the ground and this endless urge to please his father, even though it never seems to be enough. Merlin already knows. He knows about Arthur’s prickly side, about his defensive anger and all the scars he tries so hard to hide. Merlin knows and he wants him anyway; loves him anyway.

There should be something different about tonight, Arthur thinks, something in the air around him, or the lights beyond the windows to indicate the importance of his epiphany, but it all seems exactly the same.

His head is pounding with lack of sleep, but the adrenalin and the suddenly hectic beat of his heart is enough to make Arthur feel wide awake. He doesn’t bother with lights, his head probably wouldn’t be able to take it anyway, and slowly makes his way into the darkened living area.

 When he hears Arthur approach, Merlin turns his head to look at him and Arthur stops, rooted in place.

 Arthur doesn’t know what Merlin sees in his face, but whatever it is, it makes him cast the ereader aside and rise from the settee. When he takes a step towards Arthur and holds out a hand, Arthur takes it without another thought. No more waiting, no more denying himself. He’s sick of it, sick of himself and all his stupid reasons.

Touching Merlin’s skin brings a wave of relief so sweet it makes his knees go weak and he almost stumbles, but Merlin’s fingers around him are strong and steady and when he leads Arthur towards the couch, Arthur follows without protest.

He doesn’t think, not this time. As soon as Merlin has folded himself onto the couch, Arthur lets himself fall into the soft cushions and all but crawls into Merlin’s lap. He rests his head there, his cheek pressed against Merlin’s warm thigh as he curls towards him and buries his nose in Merlin’s stomach. He feels Merlin’s fingers in his hair, feels him shift as he leans over him to reach the cover that has ended up scrunched up and tangled somewhere around Arthur’s feet and gently tucks it in around him.

It’s warm and comfortable and all of Arthur’s limbs suddenly feel as though they’re filled with lead. He turns his head, pressing his cheek against Merlin’s leg and doesn’t even realise that his eyes are closed until his thoughts have already gone fuzzy and far away with sleep.

Arthur must’ve dozed off after that, because the next thing he knows is that he’s apparently shifted position and has ended up lying mostly on his back, the cover slightly askew and bunched around his waist. His head is still pillowed in Merlin’s lap, his hand in Arthur’s hair, tenderly cradling his skull. Arthur is just about to blink his eyes open, when he feels it.

Merlin is touching him, his fingertips mapping out the lines of Arthur’s face in whisper-soft caresses. They’re so light and fleeting that Arthur thinks at first that he’s imagined it, but the slow shiver running down his spine is very real, as is the hot tingling beneath his skin.

Arthur wants to lean into it, wants to press closer into each soft touch and imprint it into his skin, but he doesn’t dare move for the fear that Merlin might stop. Instead, he forces himself to lie as still as he can. He catches himself holding his heath, but then forces himself to keep drawing air into his lungs and letting it back out, feigning the even rhythm of sleep.

He can feel Merlin tracing a slow line down the bridge of his nose, then back up to smooth across his eyebrows and the lines of his forehead, as if trying to erase all the past traces of a frown. They follow a cheekbone, then the edge along his jaw all the way to the underside of his chin. When he feels Merlin’s finger dip lower and run along the vulnerable line of his throat, he can’t control the sudden hitch in his breath, his head tilting back and pressing more firmly against Merlin’s thigh as he bares his throat, silently begging. 

It’s only when Merlin’s fingers still that he realises what he’s done, that he’s given himself away.

He does hold his breath, then, his heart thumping so loudly Arthur is sure Merlin must be able to hear it hammering against his ribs. He expects Merlin to take his hand back, dreads the moment when Merlin withdraws and breaks their connection after Arthur has done nothing but push him away for days, has ignored him and avoided him, been cold and distant and secretly miserable.

But Merlin doesn’t withdraw, because Merlin has always been braver than Arthur in many ways, especially, as it seems, in this.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the fingers start moving once more, resuming their path long Arthur’s throat and all the way to the curve of a collarbone. They pause there for a moment, before brushing against the point where Arthur’s pulse is thundering beneath his skin and all the way to the soft spot behind his ear that makes him tremble.

His breath is coming fast now, short little bursts of air far too loud in the otherwise silent room and Arthur presses his eyes closed and turns his head, seeks the warmth of Merlin’s stomach and wants to hide there. But the hand in his hair tightens and stops the movement halfway through, forces Arthur to stay in place, his face for once unguarded and right there for Merlin to see, his every vulnerability laid bare. Arthur has never felt more naked than in that moment.

He knows he must look frightened, feels each and every one of his muscles strung so tight with tension that they ache. Merlin must feel it too, for when he fits his hand to Arthur’s cheek, gently cradles his jaw, it’s tender and full of silent reassurance. It stays there for a few too-fast heartbeats, a simple touch grounding Arthur to the moment and easing his breathing back into something more steady and less panicked.

When the touch resumes it’s no longer just fingertips, but the feeling of Merlin’s entire palm sliding along his throat, slow and careful. Merlin’s skin is soft and dry and leaves a burning trail of desire across Arthur’s own. He shudders with it, bites the inside of his cheek when he feels Merlin’s fingers dipping briefly beneath the collar of his shirt, before brushing lower, leaving his naked skin to sweep down, down across his chest. The smooth fabric of his dress shirt does nothing to stop the electric feel of Merlin’s touch, could just as well not be there at all for how desperate it makes him.

But still he doesn’t open his eyes, just presses them tighter closed as he shivers through the sensation of Merlin’s hand tracing a line all the way from his hipbone to the hollow of his throat then back up; again, and again. Arthur’s throat is tight and his skin over-sensitised, too hot. His clothes feel stifling and too rough, the drag of his shirt maddening and so very frustrating for the simple fact that it’s separating Merlin’s skin from his own.

Arthur arches his back, a small, desperate move to press into Merlin’s touch just that little bit more. It knocks Merlin’s hand off course, makes his fingers graze the slightly puckered outline of a nipple and Arthur shudders, the sensation sudden and unexpected and almost too much. His hard cock jerks inside the confines of his trousers and he barely bites back the choked sound trying to spill over, traps it in his throat, but in the stillness of the room it still rings out, punctured by harsh breaths that force their way into a chest that feels raw and too tight.

Merlin’s touch gentles, retreats to somewhere safer, the fingers in Arthur’s hair loosening and stroking softly, soothingly. Merlin’s palm presses against his chest, close to Arthur’s thundering heart, and Arthur knows it’s meant to be calming and unthreatening, but he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life and nothing Merlin does now is anything but electrifying.

“Sorry,” Merlin mutters, barely audible at all, and Arthur has no idea what he’s sorry for.

He finally lets himself look, lets his eyes slit open and tilts his head so he can look at Merlin, look at his beautiful face, his cheekbones and those lips Arthur’s been desperate to kiss for so long. He holds Merlin’s gaze as he covers the hand on his chest with his own, curls his fingers around it and urges it down to the hem of his shirt, pushing it beneath the fabric and against his skin like a man starving. Merlin’s lips part, his tongue swiping across them in a way that has Arthur gasping for it and his hand fans out, splays against Arthur’s stomach. It feels almost greedy, the way he seems to want to touch as much of Arthur as possible.

This time, the touch is deliberate, Merlin’s thumb finding Arthur’s nipple and circling it once, twice, three times. Arthur arches towards it, his back straining a little and a flush has started spreading up over his chest, the back of his neck, making sweat build against his hairline.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes and Arthur shivers, the hand that isn’t still clutching Merlin’s wrist beneath his shirt scrabbling to find something to hold on to.

His palm is hot and sweaty against the soft nape of Merlin’s neck and Merlin folds over him with the barest of pressure, the fingers in Arthur’s hair tightening convulsively as Merlin’s lips find his brow, then slide to the bridge of his nose, retracing the path his fingers had taken before.

Merlin’s thumb on Arthur’s nipple is restless, circling one more time before dragging across, catching on the pebbled tip as it goes hard and wanting beneath his touch. Arthur’s grip on Merlin tightens, his fingers digging into his skin as he presses him closer, a deep groan filling the hot air between them before Arthur even knows it has been building in his chest. Merlin does it again and Arthur can feel himself leaking, staining the inside of his pants and thinks that just a little bit more and he’ll come undone just like this, with nothing but Merlin’s fingers on his chest, in his hair, and the expensive fabric of his pants rubbing against his cock.

Arthur tilts his head back, grips tightly onto Merlin’s neck, desperate for his tongue. Merlin’s breath is hot against his mouth, hot and so, _so_ close. Arthur’s so close and he knows, _knows_ that just one touch of Merlin’s lips, of Merlin’s _tongue_ and that would be it, that’s all he needs, what he _wants, now please now, Merlin, Mer_ -

“-lin,” Arthur pants, desperate. “ _Merlin_.”

And Merlin’s fingers in his hair are tight enough to hurt, the edge of pain just enough to make Arthur even wilder, and-

The shrill sound of Arthur’s communicator cuts through the moment like a knife, drowning out harsh panting and small sounds of desperation. Merlin jerks back, startled, and Arthur shoots up before he even knows what he’s doing. Years of hearing that particular sound in the middle of the night have ingrained an automatic sense of urgency into Arthur that he’s unable to shake. A call at this time can only mean trouble, can only mean that Arthur has to stop whatever he’s doing and rush to where he’s needed.

Still panting, Arthur scrabbles for the wailing communicator, snatching it off the coffee table and barely managing to keep standing, his knees weak and trembling.

“Pendragon,” he snaps, voice wrecked, not having taken the time to look who it is.

There’s a tentative touch to his thigh, a soft brush of fingers, before Merlin’s forehead comes to rest against his side. Arthur threads shaking fingers into Merlin’s hair, cradles his head close to make it clear he’s welcome. Merlin burrows deeper, his grip on Arthur’s leg becoming surer as it curls firmly around it.

Arthur almost misses what Leon is telling him on the other end.

“-security breach at HQ,” he’s saying and Arthur’s hand in Merlin’s hair stills.

“What?” Arthur asks sharply and Merlin looks up with a frown.

“We don’t know any details, yet, but security thinks it might have been a break-in attempt.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, drags his fingers away from Merlin’s hair for a second to push back the damp strands of his dishevelled fringe, no doubt making it stand up stupidly. “Fuck. What about my father? Nimueh?”

“They’re on their way,” Leon says.

“Alright,” Arthur says, thinking quickly. “Try and get a proper report of what the fuck happened. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He barely waits for Leon’s confirmation, before disconnecting.

Merlin rises to his feet, his hands splaying across Arthur’s ribs, over the rumpled mess of his shirt. He’s close, his neutral breath washing over Arthur’s face, warm and familiar.

“What happened?”

Arthur sighs, putting his hands over Merlin’s and pulling him in. Merlin comes easily, dipping his head forward to rest their foreheads together. 

“Possible break-in at Pendragon HQ,” Arthur says, smoothing his hands along Merlin’s back as though it’s his clothing that needs straightening. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“I could come with you.”

Arthur shakes his head, gently so not to dislodge Merlin quite yet. “No. Just-” He swallows.

Merlin draws back a little, cups Arthur’s face between warm palms and gives him a searching look. “What?”

“Wait for me?”

Merlin smiles, his whole face brightening and his eyes soft and full of affection.

“Mh,” he says, mock-thoughtful. “I’m not sure. You see, there’s this prat that already left me waiting for a stupidly long time.”

Arthur tilts his head, brushing their cheeks together, before finding the irresistible line of Merlin’s throat with his lips and feeling him shiver.

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “He sounds like a right prat. I’m sure he doesn’t deserve you. That’s why you should choose me.” He hesitates, stilling there with his nose all but buried in Merlin’s hair, not daring to draw back and look into his eyes. “If you still want me, that is.”

Merlin’s hands slide around his waist, his arms winding around Arthur as he presses close, holding him tight.

“I’ve always wanted you, you clotpole.” He sounds a little choked and Arthur can do nothing but press another kiss to the closest patch of smooth skin, which happens to be the curve of Merlin’s jaw.

“You have me now.”

Merlin huffs out a breath, a shaky burst of air against Arthur’s neck. 

“You better not have another crisis over this anytime soon,” he murmurs and Arthur aches with how vulnerable it sounds. “I don’t think I could take it.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “I won’t, I promise,” he says, soft but heavy with meaning, unshakable now with his decision made once and for all. “That’s it now, you’re stuck with me.”

And Merlin must recognise it for what it is, somehow able to hear all the things that Arthur isn’t saying as Arthur feels him sag against his chest a little, tension seeping out of him and moulding him to Arthur’s body in a way that shouldn’t be possibly but that Arthur never wants to give up again.

“Good.”

*

By the time Arthur reaches Pendragon HQ, the premises is swarming with police. A few jellyfish are scattered in-between them, though without a target to pursue they merely float in place, their only movements their metal tentacles as they undulate to keep them afloat and balanced.

He spots Nimueh, who is busy talking to a group of people that are neither in uniform, nor employees and Arthur can tell from their air alone that they’re journalists, circling their prey like the vultures they are until something happens to have them zeroing in and pouncing. But Nimueh is playing it cool, Arthur can tell. It’s one of her many skills and the reason why it’s her that’s in charge of their press releases.

A few paces away, Leon is conferring with a group of police officers and two of the androids belonging to their cleaning staff, who incidentally also doubles as their security. Arthur considers joining them and questioning them for details, but it’s then that he catches his father waving at him from across the entrance hall. Throwing one last glance at the general commotion, Arthur makes his way across the room and, at his father’s motioning, they discreetly slip behind the fountain to have at least the illusion of privacy.

“What happened?” Arthur asks again, hoping that this time the answer would be more forthcoming.

His father looks as grim as Arthur’s ever seen him, his lips a thin line and his eyes cold and hard.

“Someone tried to break in, but our security system held.”

Arthur’s eyes widen and he leans in closer, lowering his voice even as his eyes flicker to the people still milling about outside.

“You caught them?” he asks.

His father, if possible, looks even more pinched. “Sadly, no.”

Arthur presses his lips together. “Were they alone?”

“As far as we can determine, yes.” His father pauses briefly, before fixing Arthur with a hard look. “We think he’s a hired man, a spy for one of our competitors. Bayard is growing rather desperate lately.”

“You think he would go that far?”

“He has tried before.”

“But not like this,” Arthur says firmly, shaking his head. “He must’ve known he’d never get away with it! Our security system is renowned for being the best in the country.”

“Bayard is a fool,” his father says, derisive. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s underestimated us. Sending a shoddy thief looks just like something he would do. Pity we cannot trace it back to him.”

 _Not so shoddy if he escaped before you got him_ , Arthur thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud. “I see.”

“But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” Uther waves a dismissive hand, the way he always does when he considers a topic closed with no regard towards whether his conversation partner feels the same. Arthur clenches his teeth, but doesn’t protest. His father goes on and Arthur already knows from the tone of his voice that he won’t like whatever he comes out with. “In light of what’s happened, we need to present ourselves unshaken to the public eye. I will make an effort to attend some of the social gatherings in the next few weeks and you should make an appearance as well - sooner rather than later.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you requesting that I should go out and get drunk?”

His father grimaces. “We need to show the people that we aren’t worried. You going out and…doing as you always do is important. Take your friends, stop by the club and make sure the vultures take plenty of memographs of you having fun.” The way Uther said _fun_ is akin to the name of a terminal illness. “Just be careful not to overdo it. I don’t need a repeat of four years ago.”

Arthur stiffens, his jaw clenching painfully at the reminder. The six months after Sophia had officially sold him out had…not been good.

“Of course, father.”

His father nods. “You can go,” he says, but not before giving him a sharp look. To Arthur’s surprise, his father reaches out a hand to clasp his shoulder in a firm, if brief and awkward grip. “You look like death, son. Take the weekend and rest. I don’t want to see you in the office before Monday. And let me know about those reports on the new hair transplants. I thought they looked quite promising.”

Arthur doesn’t really know what to do with any of that, instead focusing on the business part of the conversation and giving his father a nod.

“Good, good,” his father says, then clears his throat in the same way Arthur does when he’s nervous or awkward. It’s rather alarming to realise that there’s actually things they have in common.

Arthur takes pity on him - both of them, really - and ends the increasingly fumbling exchange by telling his father that he needs to talk to Leon before he goes. Uther is visibly relieved as he dismisses him and Arthur tries to remember a time when they’ve ever had a conversation that lasted longer than five minutes about a topic unrelated to work or Morgana’s illness. He can’t come up with a single instance.

*

When Arthur finally returns home, he can barely see straight he’s so tired and when Merlin meets him by the door, he wraps himself around him simply because he can, mutters _False alarm_ as he finds the familiar softness of Merlin’s warm neck and presses his nose into it. Merlin laughs at him, but his arms are tight as they wrap around Arthur, pulling him closer.

“C’mon you big log,” Merlin says affectionately. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Arthur lets himself be dragged, uses the excuse to nuzzle into Merlin as they stumble towards the bedroom. It’s almost as if he’s drunk, like that night a week ago all over again, but this time Arthur is still somewhat coherent by the time Merlin tumbles him onto his bed. The mattress is soft and welcoming and Arthur bounces a little on impact, forcing an involuntary laugh from him. Merlin, who hasn’t really stopped laughing the whole way, giggles stupidly and crawls onto the sheets next to him. He reaches for the red cardigan Arthur had hastily shrugged into instead of his suit jacket when he’d left earlier, and tries to detangle it from his body without him sitting up.

“A little help,” Merlin grunts, tugging on the fabric and Arthur flails his arms a little and rolls to the side so Merlin can finally get it off him.

He throws it over the edge of the bed and Arthur makes a face, but Merlin just grins at him and wrestles with the duvet, pulling it up and over them both.

“‘M not sleeping in my trousers,” Arthur mumbles.

Merlin settles in next to him. “Yes, you are. It’s for my own sanity. Except.” He hesitates. “If you don’t want me to stay?”

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” Arthur says on a huff, blindly throwing an arm around Merlin and pulling him in closer against his body. “Of course I want you to stay.”

Arthur is just about to settle, sleep pulling at him like a siren’s song, but something isn’t quite right, not quite comfortable.

“No,” he says, suddenly realising the problem. “Merlin, you’ll need to move to the other side.”

“What?”

“I always sleep on the left.”

“How is that the left?” Merlin complains, but shuffles over Arthur, obediently settling down on his other side.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur mutters.

He almost drags Merlin down on top of him, but he’s too tired to move and instead waits until Merlin is once more curled against him before wrapping his arm back around him and sliding one of his thighs into the warm space between Merlin’s. Merlin accommodates him easily, hitching up one of his legs and curling it around Arthur’s own, his breath warm against Arthur’s chest as he snuggles into him.

Arthur sighs and he can’t remember closing his eyes, but he’s asleep after just a few heartbeats.

*

He wakes up hot and uncomfortable, feeling so well rested that it takes a moment for him to remember what the feeling’s actually like. His trousers and the duvet are twisted around his legs and he wrinkles his nose, making a note to have Merlin change the sheets.

Merlin.

Arthur looks around, but Merlin isn’t anywhere in the room. Checking the time, Arthur discovers that it’s well past noon. He stretches and gets up, taking the time to shower and change into something more comfortable, before making his way into the kitchen.

“Good morning. Or afternoon, as it is.” Merlin smiles at him and hands him a cup of coffee.

Arthur blinks, surprised, but takes it. “Good morning.” 

“What would you like to eat?” Merlin asks, babbles really. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted breakfast or maybe jump straight to lunch so I waited until you woke up. We have-”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, putting down the still brimming cup of coffee and taking a step closer, then another. Merlin turns to him, a little startled, his eyes flickering over Arthur’s face as Arthur effectively crowds him against the counter. “There’s something else I’d like much more than food.”

“Is that so?” Merlin smiles, but it looks skittish and the way he presses himself against the counter behind him makes Arthur pause.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” Merlin says, then ducks his head. “Yes? I don’t know, I just- haven’t exactly done this before.” He looks at Arthur through his lashes. Arthur lets out a breath and backs away, wanting to give Merlin some space to breathe, but Merlin’s hands shoot out, clutching Arthur’s hips and halting his retreat. “That’s not what I meant, I mean, I want to. I want you. _So much_ , Arthur you have no idea. It’s-” Merlin lets out a frustrated breath and looks away. “This is stupid.”

Arthur steps in closer once more, gently framing Merlin’s face with his hands. “It’s not stupid.” He can feel Merlin’s QuanticHeart beating fast against his chest and presses a little closer. “Tell me.”

“Yesterday- yesterday was amazing and- and easy. Because I wasn’t thinking. But then you had to go and when you slept- I did nothing but think, and- there’s all these settings, you know, I mean, of course you know, because you put them there,” Merlin fumbles and Arthur gently smoothes his thumbs across Merlin’s cheekbones. “What I mean is, I know it’s all there, all these lines of code to tell me what to do in situations like this, but I don’t want that. I mean, I don’t mind tapping into it and getting some pointers but this, now, I want it to be just us. Just _me_ , and that other part of me, the code and the hard drives and all that stuff it doesn’t- it doesn’t _feel_ like me. Not really.”

Arthur doesn’t really know what to say to that, isn’t sure he understands, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he settles for something familiar, wraps his arms around Merlin and hugs him, tight and close. Merlin sags against him, pushing into Arthur as though he wants to crawl under his skin, as if Arthur doesn’t feel him there already.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push,” Arthur says softly. “We don’t have to do this now.”

“I want it now,” Merlin insists, hands curling into Arthur’s tshirt. “I’ve wanted it for so long, I don’t want to wait anymore. Please, Arthur.”

“Alright,” Arthur murmurs, smoothing his palms across Merlin’s back. “Alright.”

He doesn’t move immediately, and even when he does, it’s to tilt his head and gently press his lips to Merlin’s forehead, then between his eyebrows and to the bridge of his nose, imitating the same path Merlin’s lips had taken yesterday. Merlin sighs and leans into it, his lips parted and his breathing hitching a little with every touch of Arthur’s mouth. When their lips finally brush, it’s electric, sending a stab of want through Arthur, making heat pool in his stomach as he shivers. Merlin is trembling, but when Arthur tries to retreat to make sure he’s alright, he surges forward and clumsily catches Arthur’s lips with his own.

Arthur falls into it, his mouth open and hungry, kissing Merlin like he might die without it, unable to stop. He thinks that it’s too fast, too rough, but Merlin is warm, soft and so, so welcoming, making those tiny, needy noises and pressing closer, closer, _closer._

Arthur makes a choked sound that wants to be a moan, but doesn't quite manage through the tightness of his throat. Merlin's hands are gentle, at first, nothing but fleeting presses of his fingertips against Arthur's jaw, but then the dry softness of his palm curves around Arthur's neck, pulling him in deeper and Arthur can’t stop, kisses him wet and open and filthy. His own hands are desperate things clutching at Merlin's waist and clawing at his clothes. It lacks any finesse and coordination but it doesn't matter.

When Arthur crowds Merlin against the counter this time, there’s no hesitation. Merlin drags him close, arches against him and Arthur can’t think. He can feel Merlin’s hardness against his thigh and feels his own cock throb. He pushes forward, nearly bending Merlin over the counter as he presses his leg between Merlin’s, rubbing his thigh against Merlin’s cock even as he grinds his own against a hip that’s a little pointy but still so good.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, breathless, his hips jerking forward and seeking friction. Arthur ruts against him, grinds him into the edge of the counter and kisses him again, sucking Merlin’s tongue into his mouth and catching his next moan and the one after that.

They end up with Merlin almost lying on the counter, bent over backwards at an angle that can’t be comfortable, but every time Arthur thinks of moving them somewhere else, Merlin would make one of these hungry sounds, or grab at Arthur’s hair, or thrust his hips against Arthur’s in a way that ground their cocks together _just so_. And Arthur forgets all about moving, forgets _everything_ apart from the heat of Merlin’s mouth and the delicious friction between them.

It can’t last, not after all the tension they’d both been carrying around, not after last night with the memory of Merlin’s fingers still enough to make Arthur tremble with pleasure. His cock is wet and painfully hard, straining against his underwear, the fly of his worn jeans. His lips slide lower, allowing him a brief moment to draw in deep, desperate breaths, before latching onto the soft warmth of Merlin’s throat. He sucks, hard, sets his teeth to that none-pulse point that he’s been desperate to taste, even as he knows that there will be no mark after.

Merlin keens, low and needy, one of his legs lifting to wrap around Arthur’s waist, his nails biting into Arthur’s scalp, then the line of his shoulders and finally, gloriously, into the meat of Arthur’s arse as he shoves their hips together, hard and fast. It’s clumsy and hardly coordinated, but Arthur couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Merlin,” he says, moans it into Merlin’s mouth as he kisses him without any finesse. It seems his brain can’t decide what it wants, his mouth continuing to talk even as his lips cling to Merlin’s, keep kissing him desperately.

He wants to say more, wants to gentle his grip and his thrusts, wants to take Merlin to bed and do this properly- 

But Merlin is only holding on tighter, parting his thighs wider for Arthur to mould himself between them and it’s so hot, so hot and almost painful. The friction of fabric against sensitive skin chafes in a way that should be uncomfortable, but instead only sharpens Arthur’s passion, a physical manifestation of his helpless desperation as he drowns in Merlin’s kisses, swallows both their frantic sounds. His hips are restless, relentless and it’s so, _so-_

Arthur’s orgasm is brutal, rips through him in a way that leaves him completely wrecked.

There’s nothing but the rushing sound of his own blood and the feeling of hot wetness slicking the inside of his pants, turning the lingering burn of friction into something hot and slick. Merlin is shaking beneath him, clinging to Arthur as though he’s the last thing holding him to this world and Arthur clings back just as hard, buries his face in Merlin’s soft neck. He kisses him there, sloppy and still too frantic, tastes his own sweat and feels Merlin shudder and try to pull Arthur closer despite the fact that there’s already no space left between them.

Coming back to himself is a slow process. Arthur isn’t quite sure how long it actually takes him to scrape together his scattered wits, but he knows that if Merlin’s position was uncomfortable before, it must be near unbearable now. The awkward angle he’s ended up in over the counter has only turned worse and now he’s also bearing the entirety of Arthur’s boneless weight on top of that.

Scrambling to get his feet under himself, Arthur tries to get his arms to take his weight and push himself upwards, but his muscles are still weak and shaky and he barely manages to get far enough to get a proper look at Merlin’s face. He doesn’t look uncomfortable in the least, giving Arthur a ridiculous, heart-stopping smile when their eyes meet and promptly drags him back down for a kiss.

Arthur falls into him all over again, can’t resist sliding his tongue between Merlin’s already parted lips. Merlin moans softly, meets Arthur’s tongue with his own and uses the hand still tangled in Arthur’s hair to pull him in deeper.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmurs eventually, when he’s finally managed to detach himself from Merlin’s irresistible mouth long enough to speak.

Merlin gives him a quizzical look, but doesn’t protest when Arthur finally straightens himself and draws Merlin up with him. He winds his arms around Arthur’s neck, presses into him and kisses him again. Arthur can’t do anything but let him.

“What for?” Merlin asks as he draws back, brushing Arthur’s sweat-damp fringe from his forehead.

Arthur sighs. “I didn’t- This isn’t exactly how I wanted it to go.” He runs a thumb along Merlin’s cheek, then the elegant slope of his jaw. “I wanted to at least take you to bed, make it good for you…”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts him gently, his arms around Arthur’s shoulders tightening as he pulls them together and tilts his head so their foreheads meet. “Did it look as though I wasn’t enjoying myself?”

Arthur presses his lips together, his hands coming to rest on Merlin’s hips. “I got carried away.”

Merlin’s fingers card a tender path through Arthur’s hair, before dipping into his collar and making him shiver. “So did I,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “And I loved every minute of it, okay? So stop worrying. I don’t care about the location. We can do it in the kitchen or on the bloody roof for all I care. I just want you,” Merlin’s tongue flicks out, brushing against Arthur’s lips and making him gasp. “I want you to keep touching me, to keep kissing me- I want you to want me, I- Gods, Arthur you’ve been driving me insane.”

“ _Me_? _I’ve_ been driving _you_ insane?” Arthur asks incredulously. And he can’t help it, has to pull Merlin flush against his body once more and groans softly when he feels the firm line of Merlin’s cock, already hard again. Arthur’s own gives a feeble jerk, starting to rise and press against the wetness on the inside of his pants, but still over-sensitised enough to make it just that little bit painful as it thickens. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep away from you, how badly I’ve needed this.” _How badly I need you_.

“Show me,” Merlin whispers, his hips hitching against Arthur’s in a slow, filthy slide and when Arthur captures Merlin’s lips in a wet, open-mouthed kiss, Merlin moans into it, “Fuck, show me, Arthur, please.”

Arthur makes an embarrassing, needy sound, licks deeper into Merlin’s mouth as his hands find a way beneath Merlin’s tshirt and caress the soft skin he finds underneath.

“Bed,” he gasps, but isn’t quite sure if it came out in any way understandable, but it doesn’t matter, because Merlin comes willingly when he drags him along, stumbling into the general direction of the bedroom. 

Arthur can’t stop kissing him, but it’s no surprise that he’s become immediately addicted to Merlin’s mouth - he’d expected no less, really. His only consolation is the way Merlin arches into him, the way his lips cling right back and his tongue is sucked greedily into Merlin’s mouth. They crash into one wall, then another, and Arthur swallows Merlin’s whimpers when his thumbs find Merlin’s nipples and coax them into two hard, wanting nubs of soft flesh.

Merlin claws at Arthur’s tshirt and Arthur lets him rip it off him, before diving straight back into his mouth.

It takes them a small eternity to reach the bed and Arthur is already rock-hard and leaking by the time they tumble into the sheets. Arthur’s clothes have been left behind in a trail and Merlin is left only with the bunched up fabric of his tshirt under his arms, but neither of them seems to have the patience to part long enough from the other to remove it.

With the softness of the bed beneath them, some of Arthur’s resolutions finally come back. It’s not easy, slowing down, almost impossible with Merlin writhing beneath him, so eager and responsive, his smooth thigh pressing up against Arthur’s weeping hardness and his fingers printing half-moons of want into Arthur’s hips as Merlin tries to get him down, closer, _closer_ , right into the cradle of Merlin’s slim, impossibly long legs.

Arthur resists, barely.

“Arthur,” Merlin protests, pants, as Arthur wrenches himself far enough away to sit up. “No, come back here, come-”

Arthur kisses him, sloppy and filthy, his lips puffy and raw from it by now, then draws back once more. He plants a palm against Merlin’s chest, fans his fingers out over soft skin and the wrinkled, scrunched up hem of Merlin’s tshirt, keeps him there as he straddles Merlin’s thighs.

“Let me,” Arthur murmurs, bends down to mouth at the irresistible point of a nipple before sitting back up and looking down at Merlin, panting and wanting and so, so beautiful. “Let me see you.”

And Arthur knows somehow, that if Merlin could blush, his face would be red right then. He laughs a little, then more when he catches Merlin’s slightly indignant look. He kisses Merlin’s cheek, the perfect curve of his cheekbone, then traces his tongue along one of those ridiculous ears that he can’t help but find adorable - feels Merlin shiver and tilt his head for better access.

“So beautiful,” Arthur whispers, before he even realises that the words have formed on his tongue. It’s his turn for his face to turn hot, but he refuses to take it back, merely kisses Merlin again.

He brings Merlin off slowly this time, fits his hand around the velvety hardness of Merlin’s cock and strokes him, even and measured. Merlin tosses his head from one side to the other, his eyes either wide and endlessly blue as they stare up at Arthur, or squeezed shut as he arches his back, the pale line of his throat drawing Arthur’s lips like a magnet. 

Arthur’s free hand finds one of Merlin’s, twines their fingers together and lets Merlin hold on fast as Arthur spreads slick pre-come over Merlin’s cock and refuses to go faster until Merlin is beyond desperate and all but sobbing beneath Arthur’s touch.

“Please,” Merlin moans, voice raw. “Please, Arthur, I can’t, I need- _please-_ ”

He’s shaking, his thighs tense and trembling and it’s only then that Arthur finally picks up the pace, tightening his hold and leaning down to kiss Merlin just as hot wetness spills between them and Merlin comes with a choked off keen, squeezing Arthur’s hand tightly enough to hurt.

Arthur drinks him in, keeps on kissing him even as he brings the hand that’s still covered with Merlin’s artificial come to his own cock and jerks himself off at a hard and frantic pace. Merlin pulls him closer, wraps his legs around Arthur and sucks on Arthur’s tongue until he thinks he might actually die from how good it feels. He comes with Merlin’s fingers still tight around his own and his thumb rubbing at one of Arthur’s nipples with none of the hesitation from last night, but all of the lingering feelings of desire, painting Merlin’s skin white with his come.

They’re a mess, but Arthur doesn’t care.

He finds his bearings at some point between collapsing into Merlin’s arms and blinking his eyes open to find the room darker than it had been before. He’s still on top of Merlin, kisses the first bit of skin he finds, which happens to be the smooth slope of a shoulder. Merlin shifts, presses his lips to Arthur’s forehead and squeezes him a little, apparently unfazed by Arthur all but crushing him into the bed. And of course he is, there’s no breath to be squeezed out of him, no discomfort by having limbs trapped that can’t fall asleep.

Arthur sighs and pushes the thoughts away, kisses Merlin again, this time finding his mouth.

Their bellies stick together, both their skins caked in dried come, but Arthur pushes closer all the same. He’s sweaty and disgusting, but Merlin kisses him back like none of it matters, tasting of Arthur. It makes heat unfurl in his chest, sparking hotly along his spine and his heart thumps heavily in his chest with how much he loves Merlin; so glad that all this stupid business about denying himself is finally over.

For a while it’s all they do, kissing lazily and shifting around into a different position, until they end up on their sides, legs tangled and fingers stroking aimlessly. Arthur is rubbing his thumb over the curve of Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin is slowly tracing the line of Arthur’s spine, when he finally breaks the silence.

“Is it different?” Merlin asks quietly.

Arthur frowns, curves his whole palm around Merlin’s shoulder and loves how well it fits there. “Is what different?”

Merlin isn’t looking at him, his lashes long and dark as they hide his eyes, which are now fixed on Arthur’s collarbone.

“You know, with me?” Merlin swallows audibly and doesn’t lift his gaze, his voice dropping even further as he goes on. “Because I’m not human?”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, ducks his head a little to catch Merlin’s eye and when that doesn’t work, cups a hand to Merlin’s jaw to gently tilt his head.

“I don’t care about that,” Arthur says quietly, brushes a kiss to Merlin’s lips to underline how much he means it. “It doesn’t matter what you are, I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you. I’ve never felt like this before.”

Merlin’s hand covers Arthur’s own, holds it in place against his skin. He looks open, vulnerable, his eyes now staring deeply into Arthur’s own. “Like what?”

Arthur licks his lips and his heart hammers some more, feeling almost ready to burst from the confines of his chest.

“As if I’ve found something I didn’t know I was missing,” he admits then, so quiet it’s almost nothing more than his lips shaping the words with no sound at all. He turns his hand, twines his fingers through Merlin’s longer ones and kisses one, then another. His throat feels dry, but he forces himself to go on, “And now that I have, I couldn’t live without it.”

Merlin grips back, tight, and his gaze is firm now, warm and sure and full of love.

“My place is with you, Arthur.” There is no room for anything but certainty in his voice. “And it always will be.”

*

They stay in bed and it’s the first time that Arthur’s had anyone to do that with, to simply burrow beneath the covers and forget the world with. They kiss and they talk, and sometimes they do neither, just breathe each other in or weave their limbs together and just _are_. Arthur wishes it could always be like this, wishes he could make this bed, this stretch of time right there, into his perfect little world where nothing else exists.

When Arthur’s stomach starts making strange noises, much to Merlin’s amusement, they briefly abandon their fortress of pillows and duvets to retrieve something edible from the kitchen. They return laden down with dozens of different things, none of which match, and Merlin proceeds to make an even greater mess of the bed (and Arthur) by feeding Arthur grapes and crisps and bits of orange and a whole lot of other things.

Arthur complains the entire time, protests each and every morsel, but eats it anyway, licking at Merlin’s fingers and shivering each time Merlin’s tongue laps at his chin, transforming the usual bland taste of his mouth into something sweet and fruity.

“So what happened?” Merlin asks, having just stuffed a strawberry into Arthur’s mouth. “Last night at HQ? With the break-in?”

It takes Arthur a moment to catch on to the question, momentarily side-tracked by the fact that Merlin is currently using the loose corner of the bed sheet to wipe a stray streak of strawberry juice from his thigh.

Arthur swallows the mouthful of fruit and catches Merlin’s hand before he can wipe that as well, instead choosing to clean it with the help of his tongue. Merlin’s breath hitches and he pushes his finger a little deeper into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur pulls off after a moment, sticky juice now successfully removed.

“They got away,” he answers finally.

Merlin hums, thoughtful and apparently still a little hazy eyed from the feel of Arthur’s mouth. “Do you know who it was?”

Arthur makes a face and fishes a crisp from one of the packets they’ve opened. “My father thinks Bayard sent them.”

“Bayard?” Merlin asks, surprised. “The head of Mercia Incorporated?”

Arthur nods. “The one and only.”

Merlin sits up a little straighter. “What do you think? Is it possible?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “He’s done stupid things before, but this seems a bit extreme even for him.”

Merlin frowns but doesn’t say anything for a moment. He offers Arthur a piece of melon and Arthur takes it without protest this time. Sometimes it feels strange, to be the only one eating, but Arthur tries his best not to think about it. A nectarine follows the melon and Arthur splutters a little when juice dribbles _everywhere_. He doesn’t even want to think about all the kinds of stickiness currently coating his skin.

“Gods, I need a shower,” Arthur says, wrinkling his nose and taking a page from Merlin’s book, wiping at the mess on his chest. “We’re both disgusting.”

Merlin looks unconcerned and leans over to lick at Arthur’s mouth, completely unrepentant.

“Live a little. We can clean up later.” 

Arthur sighs, kicks at the various pods of food to move them aside and tugs Merlin closer, straight into his lap. He kisses Merlin, licks into his mouth and tastes nectarine and a hint of strawberry, and palms the smooth expanse of his back. He stops just a few inches shy of his arse, barely resists pulling them more flush together.

“I can’t stay,” Arthur says into the kiss and Merlin draws back a little to give him a searching look.

“Why not?”

Arthur moves his palms upwards again, splaying one against Merlin’s ribs and burying the other in his thick hair. He doesn’t want to go, he really, _really_ doesn’t, but it’s not like what he does and doesn’t want have ever been very important in the great scheme of things. He turns his face into Merlin’s neck.

“I need to check in on Morgana,” he says into the soft skin there and feels Merlin’s fingers curve around the nape of his neck, caressing gently. “And then I was thinking of going out. My father said I should make a point of being seen having fun. Show _the people_ that the attempted break in hasn’t shaken us.” He’s almost surprised how derisive the words end up sounding.

Merlin’s hand stills. “Oh.”

And Arthur hates how he sounds then, hates that he’s the one who made him sound this way. He kisses Merlin’s shoulder, winds his arms around him and hugs him close against his sticky chest.

“I was thinking,” he says, slow and quiet. “If maybe you want to come with me?”

Merlin pulls back a little, far enough to catch his gaze.

“Come with you?” he asks. “You want me to come clubbing with you?”

Arthur licks his lips, barely refrains from following it up with a clearing of his throat. “Obviously we’d have to be discreet, the vultures will have a field day in any case, but yes. I’d like that.” He looks at Merlin. “If you want to, that is.”

Merlin’s eyes are a little wide, but the smile curving his lips is sweet and earnest.

“Mh, I’m not sure,” he says after a moment, a clear note of teasing entering his tone. He taps an elegant finger to his twitching lips, clearly trying (and failing) to contain a grin. “I might need to peruse my very busy schedule.” Arthur rolls his eyes and Merlin’s grin only widens. “But I suppose I could pencil you in. Can’t have you pining away for me, now can I?”

Arthur pushes at his chest, sending him into a mound of pillows and tries to hide his own smile with a scowl.

“I take it all back,” he says, grabbing one of the few free pillows and using it to hit a laughing Merlin over the head. “You can stay here and do the laundry and I’ll go off and have fun. I won’t even think of you for a second.”

Merlin snatches the pillow off him and obnoxiously stuffs it under his head, as though there weren’t enough there to begin with.

“Yeah,” he says, all cheeky grin and dimples. “We both know how well that turned out last time.”

Arthur purses his lips, says “Shut up, Merlin” before promptly making sure of it by leaning down and taking his lips in a kiss, running his tongue along Merlin’s teeth, and fitting their grins together as Merlin’s fingers thread through his hair, pulling Arthur close, closer.

*

They drag themselves out of bed two hours later and shower together. Merlin switches the setting from sonic to water despite Arthur’s protests and they end up taking four times as long, splashing each other and wasting at least ten foaming capsules, because Merlin keeps insisting on throwing them at him and Arthur is too competitive not to retaliate.

There’s suds everywhere and, after Merlin finally surrenders when Arthur catches him in a headlock and rubs his knuckles over his head, they finally manage to wash them all off and get out of the bathroom. The smell of the foaming capsules clings to them, but Arthur can’t even bring himself to care about that as he drags Merlin close for one last kiss before they go.

The kiss turns into a make-out session against a wall in the hall, Merlin already wearing a jacket and Arthur’s coat hanging off him with one arm stuck in his sleeve and the other still only shirt-clad, unwilling to unwind from around Merlin’s waist. It almost ends with Arthur calling the whole thing off and dragging Merlin back to bed, but he restrains himself, barely, and they hurry to the car. 

None of Arthur’s friends blink an eye at their swollen lips and dishevelled hair, the car ride to the club having confirmed that yes, they were unable to keep their hands off each other and putting them together in a relatively private, enclosed space had done little to discourage them from snogging some more.

Arthur doesn’t want to, but when he recognises at least three reporters by sight alone, he forces himself to put some distance between them. Merlin senses the change and gives Arthur a weak smile, before letting Elena drag him off to dance. Arthur scowls, at himself and the entirety of the situation, swallowing the bitterness that floods his mouth and takes off towards the bar for a round of shots with Percy and Elyan, leaving Mithian and Lance each nursing a beer at their table. 

After that, he loses sight of Merlin for a while.

Arthur downs a considerable amount of shots, then gets something purply-pink, the stem of the glass changing colour with the beat of the music, and pointedly ignores the alcohol percentage displayed down the side. With Percy and Elyan having taken off for the dance floor as well, Arthur finally decides to make his way back to their table. He gets intercepted by someone he has trouble recalling the name of, but who is a VIP member at the club. Arthur is forced into an inane conversation about holo-golf and his purchase of two zoondroids from Pendragon Enterprises, namely dogs, and how superior they are to all the other ones on the market.

Arthur would’ve very much liked to tell Peter-Patrick-Pablo or whatever to shove his golf and dogs somewhere up into his I-have-money-but-no-style clad behind and return to his friends, to Merlin - but he knows that his father would somehow find out and make a fuss about what’s-his-face being a VIP at their club and that public relations are everything.

Opening the club had been one of these spur of the moment decisions that overcome his father every few months or so, where he thinks he needs to do something daring and contrary - to keep the vultures on their toes, he always says. Arthur had quietly thought him a little mental when they’d first signed the deal to the club, but his father, ever the perfect businessman, immediately sent out a flood of invitations to all their best customers, claiming them instant VIPs, and the club had been packed full on the opening night and every other night since then.

Of course that just meant that Arthur’s time away from work got nearly halved in two. Whenever he comes here, despite all the dancing and getting drunk, he’s still constantly reminded that he’s surrounded by customers and - as every stuck-up prick with more money than sense - they expect to be schmoozed wherever they go. So Arthur has to play nice and do a lot of especially bright and fake smiling, while secretly imagining practicing his sword skills on them. It’s why he hates coming to the club in the first place and usually restricts his visits to twice a month - tops.

When stuck-up-prick-whose-name-is-P-something finally succumbs to the amount of drinks Arthur has been plying him with and excuses himself for the loo, Arthur makes an escape and manages to get back to their table without any other interferences.

Only Lance, Mithian and Merlin are there, their heads bent close as they talk, but when Arthur approaches, Merlin looks up to give him one of these bright smiles that never fails to make Arthur’s heart stutter. He wants nothing more than to taste it, fit his lips to the shape of it and kiss Merlin until he can’t breathe, but has to settle for curling his hand around Merlin’s arm and steering him towards the dance floor - the need to touch him so great that it’s all but driving Arthur around the bend and dancing the only excuse he can come up with that isn’t dragging Merlin out of the club and straight back home to bed. Merlin comes without protest, though if it’s been hard to keep things friendly before, then it’s nothing compared to the torture of having Merlin’s body against his as they move to the hammering beat of the music.

Merlin doesn’t seem to be doing much better, if the subtle clench of his fingers against Arthur’s shoulder is anything to go by, but they make it through two songs before it becomes too much.

Strictly speaking, Arthur shouldn’t be considering leaving yet, but he very seriously thinks about doing it anyway.

His perfect excuse saunters up to them on their way back to the table, but Arthur would’ve desperately traded another torturous hour or two for the unwelcome sight before him.

Feet instantly rooted to the floor, Arthur forces all his energy on keeping calm and breathing, feels the instant that his face shutters and he squares his shoulders, meeting Sophia’s gaze head-on and making himself look as proud and arrogant as he possibly can.

In the four years since _it_ happened, Sophia hasn’t really changed much. Her hairdo is just as extravagant and her clothes even more so. There is never a single hair out of place on Sophia, something that Arthur had used to admire and has come to realise is nothing more than another finely honed weapon in Sophia’s very elaborate arsenal. She looks like a doll, Arthur thinks, stiff and fake.

Shame burns hotly in Arthur’s gut, just as it always does when just the sight of her makes him remember how stupid and naive he’d been, how easily fooled. His stomach twists sharply and Arthur can taste bile at the back of his throat, even while he keeps careful control of his facial muscles.

He makes a point of greeting her first, his tone carefully balanced between cordial and indifferent. It’s like playing chess, really, and Arthur has always preferred an offensive opening.

“Sophia,” he says coolly. “What a pleasant surprise.”

At his side, Merlin visibly stiffens and his expression turns positively murderous, but thankfully he remains where he is and doesn’t say anything.

“Hello, Arthur.” Sophia smiles, close lipped but somehow still managing to look like a shark. “It’s so good to see you. I was just telling my friend here that it’s such a shame we haven’t been in touch, isn’t that right?” Her _friend_ looks clearly discomfited, her eyes flickering nervously from Sophia to Arthur and back. Sophia doesn’t wait for any kind of response, simply keeps talking in that breezy way that sets Arthur’s teeth on edge. There’s a glint in her eye, the only warning before Sophia strikes her first attack. “But where are my manners. Arthur, you must tell me, how is your sister, the poor thing? It must be terrible for her, locked up at home. You should bring her sometime, let her get some air.”

Arthur almost thinks that spending time in prison for wringing Sophia’s delicate neck would be worth it, just to shut her up for good.

“I’ll be sure to pass your concern on to her,” he says, barely able to get it past his clenched teeth.

“Be sure you do,” Sophia says, then abruptly turns her attention to Merlin, still fuming silently at his side. Her eyes light up and Arthur’s stomach drops - through the floor and all the way Below. “And what have we here? How rude of you, Arthur, don’t you want to introduce me to your _friend_?” She somehow manages to make that one word sound as though it’s the most sordid thing under the sun.

Arthur has to fight down a blush, a practice thankfully perfected with years spent beneath his father’s disparaging stare.

“We were just leaving actually,” Arthur says stiffly.

He knows she’s preparing to go in for the kill by the way the right corner of her mouth twitches and her whole face glows in preparation for the finishing blow. Arthur steels himself, having learned long ago that the only way of keeping the last shards of his dignity intact, few and brittle as they may be, is to appear as unaffected as humanly possible.

“Oh, Arthur,” she breathes, adopting an air of deep pity. “I know you’re still not over me, but this,” She nods at Merlin. “This is really sad. Getting it on with a robot because you can’t have an actual person is kind of hitting rock bottom, don’t you think?”

Arthur’s cheeks feel hot, both in anger and embarrassment. How dare she take what he has with Merlin and drag it into the dirt, using it to fuel her sick mind games? He feels his chest swelling, his chin tilting upwards as he glares down at her, but before he can retort, Merlin is suddenly moving. It’s nothing big, just a small step that takes him closer to Arthur’s side, his shoulder just that tiny bit further in front; enough to be protective without looking as though Arthur can’t handle himself.

“Android, actually,” Merlin cuts into the conversation, says it with so much fake cheer that it has even Sophia blinking a little in surprise. She clearly hadn’t expected that. Neither had Arthur, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t let himself enjoy it. “I’m Merlin, hi.” He gives a wave that toes the line between dorky and aggressive. “And you must be Sophia, Arthur’s spineless, lying cheat of an ex. It’s a pleasure.”

Sophia’s mouth almost drops open in shock. “What did you just call me?”

Merlin blinks, mock-innocent, and there’s a glint in his eye that makes Arthur shiver a little.

“Oh, but I forget!” Merlin says, eyes flashing even as he makes a show of tapping his fingers to his forehead, as though he’s just realised that he’s said something stupid. “How silly of me! You were never actually his girlfriend, right? Just the person that got close to him and fucked him over in a desperate act of self-validation. My mistake, sorry. It’s so easy to get mixed up about these things.”

Merlin gives a laugh that simultaneously has the hair at the back of Arthur’s neck stand on end and has him wanting to crowd Merlin against the next solid surface and press every inch of his body against him, to kiss that fake smile off his lips that looks as though it can gut a lesser person and fuck him senseless. 

Both overwhelmed and a little terrified at the force of his reaction, Arthur swallows and tries to stomp down on his feelings, shoving them as far down as they can possibly go. But it’s hard, impossible really, because no one’s ever defended him like this before. No one’s ever looked like Merlin does right this moment, as if there’s nothing, nothing at all, that he wouldn’t do for Arthur. That one word from him could make Merlin stop or continue, could have Merlin rip into Sophia like a raging dragon and give her back just a tiny bit of the pain that Arthur has been suffering all these years with her shadow looming over him. The thought alone is exhilarating, the feeling of power intoxicating and very, very dangerous.

“Arthur, call your robot back,” Sophia says, and though her demeanour is as controlled as always, there is the barest tremor to her voice. Arthur can’t help but relish it.

He smiles his bright media smile, and slings his arm around Merlin’s shoulders. It’s casual except for all the ways that it’s not, his fingertips finding the familiar line where hair meets skin on the nape of Merlin’s neck and doing nothing to conceal the way he caresses it. Sophia looks vaguely ill.

“You know,” Arthur says pleasantly, twisting his fingers a little deeper and feeling Merlin shiver and lean into it. “I don’t think I will. You see, Merlin here is the absolute pinnacle of modern science. He’s so well programmed you hardly even know he’s an android.” Here, Arthur lowers his voice and does a show of leaning slightly closer as though sharing a secret. “It’s almost as if he can think for himself!”

Sophia’s eyes widen, her gaze flickering between Arthur and Merlin at a frantic pace. She looks scared, Arthur thinks, pale and truly frightened. She must think Arthur’s gone insane. It had been one of her most famous quotes. _“To be honest, sometimes I was just frightened. His sister, Morgana…she’s completely insane. Everyone knows it. But I could never help thinking, what if Arthur’s the same? I’ve always thought that a tiny push is all it’ll take to bring him over the edge.”_

Arthur clenches his jaw, unrepentant in the face of Sophia’s distress.

“You won’t get away with this,” Sophia says, her voice having taken on a shrill note. “You know you can’t beat me at this, Arthur! This is my game, _mine_!”

Merlin narrows his eyes at her, his body pressing just that little bit closer against Arthur’s side, warm and steady and intimate.

“I’m sure you think so,” Merlin says and his tone is calm in the way the air feels before the wind picks up and becomes a storm. “But just let me give you some friendly advice, yeah? All these reporters that are permanently crawling up your arse? They aren’t really on your side, you know that, right? You are the piece of meat that they circle for some easy money and as soon as you step one foot out of line, they’ll turn on you so quickly you won’t even know what hit you.” His voice pitches even lower, and it doesn’t make his next words sound private, but dangerously threatening. “So you better pray that whatever dark secrets you’re keeping are very, _very_ well hidden.” 

Sophia’s lips are trembling just a little, her face pinched and her eyes wide. “Are you threatening me?”

Merlin just looks at her and it’s almost as though he feels sorry for her, if it weren’t for the hard set to his jaw.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, this feeling of superiority, because it won’t, you know. And let’s just be clear about one thing here,” he says, staring down at Sophia as though his gaze alone could set her aflame. “If I ever get wind of you breathing so much as a reference to Arthur’s name or family again, I’ll find all these hidden secrets and you’ll crash and burn far before your time - is that clear? Just because Arthur’s a gentleman and hasn’t hacked into your private system, doesn’t mean I’ll do the same.”

They leave Sophia standing there, pale and shaking, and Arthur is terrified how exhilarating it feels. Merlin, face still hard though with a satisfied twist to his mouth, makes as if to return to their table, but Arthur catches his arm, squeezing quickly before letting go.

“No, not yet,” he says, trying hard to keep a neutral expression. “Follow me.”

Merlin looks faintly worried now, but Arthur can’t let himself slip, not now, because if he does, all his control will shatter and he’ll have Merlin right here on the dance floor.

He leads Merlin deeper into the club and towards an inconspicuous looking ascender, calling it with his chip, before taking them up and into the private office his father had had installed there. Arthur doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch Merlin until they’ve arrived, before rounding on him, making Merlin look even more worried. Arthur is on him in an instant.

“You can’t threaten people like that,” he says, voice tight and trying his best to sound indignant, but it fails completely in the way his breath comes out short and heavy and the fact that he barely makes it to the end of the sentence before he has Merlin pressed into the wall, each and every one of his muscles straining against him, to meld them together.

If it were possible for Arthur to find a way to crawl beneath Merlin’s skin, to melt into him until they’re not two but one, he’d never come back out, ever.

“I can, for you,” Merlin murmurs, no more than a rush of breath as he presses back. “Anything for you.”

Arthur makes an unidentifiable sound as he surges forward, kissing Merlin hard and fast, like he wants to give up air if only he can continue kissing him like this. Merlin’s lips part for Arthur’s tongue, wide and eager, and the blunt edges of his nails bite into Arthur’s scalp as he urges him closer, deeper. Arthur’s moan sticks in his throat, the sound helpless and desperate, arousal shivering hotly down his spine. His cock is rock hard, almost painfully so, and Arthur grinds it between Merlin’s thighs, wanting and shameless.

Merlin yanks him impossibly closer, his legs spreading to welcome Arthur between them, one of them rising to hook around Arthur’s hip. Arthur can feel the hot hardness there, wastes no time at all as his hips thrust forward again, rubbing them together in a burst of glorious friction.

It makes Merlin keen and arch his back. He sucks messily on Arthur’s tongue and it’s like a direct line to Arthur’s cock, making him curse and rut against Merlin without finesse. There’s an insistent tug on the front of Arthur’s shirt, Merlin’s fingers twisting into it, before curving around his shoulders and suddenly their positions are reversed and it’s Merlin pressing Arthur into the wall.

Arthur gasps - in surprise, in dizzying pleasure - and Merlin takes the opportunity to lick deeply into his mouth. Arthur’s head falls back against the wall and Merlin follows him, chases his lips and kisses him again, and again. His hands find their way beneath Arthur’s shirt, a shock to Arthur’s skin making it tingle and burn with desire. Merlin’s mouth slides to his jaw, his neck. He yanks at the collar, tugging it down to get to Arthur’s chest and Arthur aches into it.

It takes him a moment to realise what Merlin is doing, but when he does his eyes snap open.

“You don’t have to-”

But Merlin is already on his knees and Arthur’s protest ends in a choked off moan when Merlin leans in to nuzzle against him through his jeans.

“Merlin,” he gasps, hips already straining not to thrust forward and Merlin’s eyes flicker up to his as he tears into Arthur’s fly, yanking it open and tugging everything down in one, unceremonious shove. It’s as if he’s just as desperate to get his mouth on Arthur as Arthur is to feel his mouth on him.

Merlin’s fingers wrap around his hard cock, making it jump and Arthur’s head falls back once more, hitting the wall with a _thump_. It should’ve hurt, but Arthur barely feels it, all his attention zeroed in on the press of Merlin’s fingers against his thigh, on the palm around his aching cock. Hot breath wafts out over the tip and Arthur shudders, his legs weak and trembling.

Arthur expects it to be tentative, expects Merlin’s tongue to lap at him experimentally, expects a slow exploration to get him used to the feel of Arthur’s cock in his mouth. What he doesn’t expect is for Merlin to give barely a lick, before practically swallowing him down in one go.

Arthur makes the most undignified sound, high and guttural at the same time.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he all but whimpers, his fingers threading into Merlin’s hair, trying his best to be gentle, which promptly fails as his cock hits the back of Merlin’s throat.

Arthur’s grip grows tight as he feels it constricting around him, wet and hot and _so fucking good_. But Merlin only makes this needy sound, his hands gripping Arthur’s thighs as he urges him forward, taking him in again. Arthur hips jerk forward, pushing his cock into Merlin’s mouth, mindless and desperate, feeling Merlin swallow him down and fuck, _fuck_ -

“Merlin,” Arthur babbles, thoughts stuck and unable to form anything else.

Merlin pulls off with a wet sound, loud and dirty in the otherwise silent room, and Arthur groans with the loss of heat. He’s so close, _so close, don’t stop now, please, please-_

Until he realises that Merlin is tilting his head back, looking up at Arthur as he closes his hand around Arthur’s cock and starts stripping it with single-minded determination, his grip tight and slick with spit and pre-come and Arthur wails pathetically, fucking forward into Merlin’s fingers.

Merlin’s lips are parted and his tongue flicks out to wet them. Arthur groans harshly, trembling all over as his muscles tense and Merlin’s fingertips dig into Arthur’s thigh in a way that Arthur knows will leave bruises, will leave a Merlin-shaped mark on him and the thought alone is enough to send Arthur flying off the edge.

White streaks Merlin’s face, slicking his cheekbones and staining his lips and if Arthur could, he’d be coming again right now. Wrecked to the core, Arthur shudders through the aftershocks, the wall the only thing still keeping him upright. His hand are shaking as he blindly grabs for Merlin, hauling him up and fumbling his fly open with numb fingers. 

He falls into Arthur’s kiss, his lips slick and bitter with Arthur’s come and Arthur licks it off him, is still licking at it when he makes Merlin come with barely two strokes of his hand, Arthur’s taste still shared between them as Merlin shudders and falls apart, keening into Arthur’s mouth and holding onto him like a drowning man.

They remain there for long, uncountable moments, Arthur desperately sucking air back into his lungs, his sweat-slick back sticking to the wall and his knees barely holding them up. Merlin nuzzles against him and Arthur shivers, his lungs protesting as his breathing hitches all over again and he has to curve his palm over the back of Merlin’s neck to still him, keeps him in place as Arthur’s head drops to his shoulder and he closes his eyes.

“What- How,” Arthur mumbles eloquently, stops to gather scrambled thoughts and finally manages to string together some words that make sense next to each other. “No way was this a first time blowjob. Hell, that wasn’t even a second or third or-” He breaks off, his brain catching up with his mouth.

And despite all they’ve just done together, he knows as soon as he’s opened his eyes that the look on Merlin’s face is another one of those blushing-without-actually-blushing expressions.

Merlin ducks his head, mumbles, “It helps not having a gag reflex.” And then, peeking up at Arthur through his lashes, “And I might have…you know, looked it up? A little?”

Arthur gapes a little. “You _cheated_!”

Merlin’s lips curve and stretch, his eyes twinkling. 

“Well…if that’s what you want to call it,” he says. “Didn’t hear you complaining before, though.” And then, because clearly he intends to kill Arthur, he catches an errant drop of come that Arthur’s missed with his finger and _licks it off_.

Arthur groans, drags him into another bitter-tasting kiss, mumbles, _Fuck, you’re going to kill me_ and swallows Merlin’s choked laugh.

*

Arthur makes the headlines, just as expected, and so does Merlin. Arthur checks his feeds on his way to work on Monday morning and finds that for once, the vultures did something right. The featured memograph is of the moment Arthur had told Sophia to shove it, his arm around Merlin’s shoulders and his whole posture relaxed while Sophia looks like a deranged nutter. It boosts his already great mood and he catches himself humming tunes of some of the weird music that Merlin likes to listen to while he cooks.

Leon’s eyes bug a bit when he catches him at it, but Arthur’s far too cheerful to be embarrassed and simply gives him a blinding smile. Leon looks a little scared and quickly scampers off. Arthur hides his snicker in his coffee cup, then almost chokes on it when Lance appears in his office with a knowing look.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” he says, giving Arthur a look.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Arthur says, turning his attention back to the lines of code he’d been working on.

“Not at all,” Lance says. “I was just wondering when you’re finally going to tell me.”

Arthur stiffens, but otherwise doesn’t react. He carefully types out another line.

“Tell you what?”

Lance sighs. “Arthur, how long have we known each other?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Of course not!” Lance sounds vaguely exasperated and Arthur shoots him a superstitious look form the side. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m glad you’re happy and that he’s obviously good for you, so I’m certainly not about to judge.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, not ready to confirm it, but reluctant to deny it just the same.

“Just remember,” Lance says softly. “You know where I am if you need me, okay?”

Arthur presses his lips together, briefly contemplates keeping quiet, before sighing and pushing the words out that have been forming on his tongue. “Thank you.” And then, because it’s true and Arthur doesn’t acknowledge it nearly enough, “You’re a good friend, Lance. Really.”

Lance smiles and leans over to give Arthur’s arm an affectionate squeeze.

“I’ll see you for lunch,” he says. “Keep you from starving.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but smiles as he makes a shooing gesture. “Out. I need to review these blasted hair transplants.”

“Sounds like fun,” Lance says drily, grinning at Arthur on his way out the door.

“Piss off.”

*

The hair transplants take Arthur the better part of the morning. He looks through Gaius’ report, then runs some calculations to work out costs, before compiling a report of his own and sending it to his father for approval. He ignores Nimueh’s rather impatient summons for something or other, resigning himself to go after his lunch break. He then sends some emails, approves some minor decisions and is just about to maybe have another poke into the deeper recess of Pendragon HQ’s database and maybe find out more about the whole sedatives affair, when his communicator starts bleeping.

Arthur answers without looking, thinking it might be Gwen.

“Pendragon,” he says, automatic, typing in a hack that would get him deeper into the system.

“Arthur,” the voice is shaky, but unmistakable. It’s definitely not Gwen.

Arthur’s spine immediately stiffens. “Merlin, what’s wrong?”

Merlin swallows. He sounds wrecked and if Arthur could jump through the communicator to be at his side right this second, he would.

“I’m sorry for calling you at work, but I-” He gulps in an audible breath. “I really need you to come home.”

Arthur’s grip turns white-knuckled against the edge of his holo-desk. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Merlin breathes raggedly for a moment and Arthur’s brain shuts off a little, struggling to keep it together as his chest tightens and tightens.

“No, no, I’m not hurt I just-” Merlin stops abruptly and his breathing sounds even more unsteady now. Arthur’s heart constricts at the thought that he might be crying.

“Alright,” Arthur says inanely, a nervous trait that he tries to conceal with the forced calmness of his voice. He’s already out of his chair and halfway across the room. “Alright, I’m on my way, okay? I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

There’s a pause and Arthur thinks maybe Merlin nodded before remembering that Arthur can’t see him. Merlin’s breathing is harsh and it sounds painful, his voice choked when he says “Okay” and Arthur picks up his pace.

Arthur doesn’t want to, but he disconnects so he can concentrate on getting home. Which is a good thing, because he barely even knows what he’s doing, simply going through the motions as he rushes to his car, then breaks every speed limit known to man. Scenario after scenario flashes through his mind, brief, unjointed tangles of thought slipping through his grasp before any of them start to even remotely make sense. He tries to blank them out, but doesn’t quite manage - his heart pounding and his face flushed when he finally tumbles out of the private ascender at home.

Merlin is wide-eyed and trembling, his lashes look wet, sticking together, and Arthur knows that if they could, his eyes would be rimmed in red. He’s wrapped in the cover from the couch, the dark grey-blue fabric almost making him look like the very first day, when Arthur had taken him home from HQ in that stupid blue robe. Arthur doesn’t even think, just closes the distance between them and wraps himself around Merlin, who instantly falls into him, even as his hands stay clutched into the hem of the cover, pressed between their chests and against Arthur’s wildly beating heart.

They stand like this for a moment and Arthur tries to will himself to calm down. He pulls away gently, just a little, and from this close he can see the tear-tracks, traces them with his thumbs and brushes them away as he cups Merlin’s face.

“Tell me what happened.”

Merlin visibly sucks in a breath, then steps back, out of Arthur’s arms.

“Come on,” he says, sounding hoarse but slightly more steady. “You need to see it.”

Arthur follows him into the kitchen. A single glass stands on the counter, a wet rim having formed around its base. Arthur frowns at it, frowns even harder when Merlin hands it to him.

“Drop it,” is all he says.

Arthur stares at him. “What?”

“Please, just-” Merlin swallows. “Just drop it.”

Maybe it’s from spending years with a crazy sister, but Arthur doesn’t protest again. He raises his eyebrows, then extends his hand a little and lets the glass drop. He doesn’t expect it to break, of course, made of transparent aluminium as most things are nowadays, but he does expect it to fall. Which it does, at first, until it doesn’t.

For a moment, Arthur is frozen, sure that what he sees can’t be true, but the glass remains where it is, suspended in the air about a foot or two off the ground. Arthur’s knees feel a little weak all of a sudden, and he stumbled back, blindly reaching out for the closest counter-edge.

“What- Is this a trick?” Arthur asks, though he already knows it isn’t.

Merlin shakes his head; Merlin shakes, is still shaking, clutching the blanket around him as though it’s a lifeline. Something flickers to life in his eyes, just the tiniest of flashes - it almost looks golden - and then the glass is moving again, but not down, but up, up, _up_ and straight into Merlin’s palm. He puts it down on the counter as if it’s burned him.

Arthur tries very hard not to freak out and it’s only years and years of practicing an iron control that keeps him from hyperventilating.

“Okay,” he rasps, sounding strangled. He clears his throat. “Let’s- let’s sit down.”

He isn’t really sure he feels his legs at all, to be honest, his movements mechanic as he makes his way over to the couch. Merlin follows without protest, but his eyes are wet again and he looks so miserable, so lost, that Arthur wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from taking him in his arms again, even had he wanted to. So he lets Merlin burrow himself in Arthur’s chest, lets him stifle his hitched breathing in the expensive fabric of Arthur’s dress shirt as Arthur cards not quite steady fingers through his hair and the soft nape of his neck.

Eventually, Merlin draws back. He makes as if to wipe his face with a corner of the cover still around his shoulders, but Arthur stops him, instead brushes them away with his fingers, before leaning in and pressing a kiss first to one cheekbone, then the other, tasting something neutral and not quite salty. Merlin leans into him and catches Arthur’s lips with his. They’re still trembling a little, so Arthur smoothes his tongue over them, nipping gently and drawing Merlin a littler deeper into the kiss.

It’s soft and familiar and Arthur finds it hard to pull back, even harder with the knowledge that he’ll have to face whatever that was, before in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin mumbles eventually, his mouth still clinging to Arthur’s and it’s all too easy to kiss him again. “I’m sorry,” Merlin tries again, after a moment. “For calling you away from work and for…all of this.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur says, drawing a caress along Merlin’s jaw. “I want you to call me.” Then softer, “I want to be there for you when you need me.”

Merlin huffs something that might be a laugh, but isn’t. “I’m sure you didn’t expect me to be this much trouble when your first took me home.”

Arthur kisses him again, light and fleeting. “I always knew you were trouble,” he says quietly. “And you’re worth every second of it.” 

Merlin smiles at him, weak but sincere. Arthur takes a breath, tries his best to collect himself, before finally saying out loud what’s been hanging between them.

“So, it looks like you can do magic.”

Merlin nods miserably. “Apparently.”

Arthur sighs. “Only you, Merlin.” He rubs at his face. “Obviously being an android with feelings and your own personality wasn’t enough, now you have magic as well - which, let’s not forget, has been extinct since the 1900s.” He lets his hand drop, feeling dizzy and a little lost. “What am I going to do with you?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, instead he tips forward and burrows right back into Arthur’s chest, looking like he wants to hide there and never emerge. Arthur knows the feeling all too well.

He threads his finger into Merlin’s hair, stroking softly, and loops the other arm around him to hold him close. Merlin shivers and curls deeper into the cover, then shivers again. 

Arthur frowns, instinctively feeling Merlin’s skin but finding it the same as ever. “Are you cold?”

It takes Merlin a moment to answer and when he does, it’s so soft, all but muffled in Arthur’s shirt, that Arthur almost missed it. He almost wishes he had.

“A little.”

Arthur’s hands drop to Merlin’s shoulders, then his arms, rubbing reflexively as if that’s all it would take to warm him. Worry twists his stomach, lies heavily in his gut and wrenches for good measure. He licks his lips and forces himself to keep it together.

“Let’s hook you up to the computer, yeah?” Arthur suggests. “Let me have a look at your coding, maybe I can tweak something to make you feel better.”

“Okay,” Merlin says quietly, looking unhappy, and there’s something unnerving about his pliancy, not a trace of his usual rebelliousness.

Arthur kisses him again, kisses the sad twist of his mouth and coaxes it into something more relaxed.

“Don’t worry,” Arthur says, even as the coil in his gut tightens. “You’re not alone, alright? All this time sticking your nose into my business, that’s what you’ve taught me. That we have each other.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, but when Arthur takes his hand, he holds on, tight.

*

Over the next three weeks, Arthur reads more about magic than he ever thought he would. His father would probably have a conniption if he ever found out. Putting his quest about finding something on the sedatives mystery on hold, Arthur dedicates all his time in tracking down information from all types of sources. He even goes to Morgana and asks her for some of her contacts from Below, many of which have provided her with old texts from the past.

He pays a small fortune for a book of spells and another which looks like an encyclopaedia of magical creatures. The paper is brittle and the Triskilion, the sign of the Old Religion, is so faded on both tomes that it’s almost unrecognisable. He also gets his hands on some more modern volumes - and by modern he means the early 1900s.

Most of their time after that is spent with their noses in weird smelling books, tangled together on the couch with Merlin wrapped up in cardigans and covers in the fruitless attempt to make him feel warmer. It doesn’t really help, especially since they discover that using magic only makes it worse. Of course Merlin being Merlin, insists on trying out his abilities anyway and after the first few times, where he managed to destroy several supposedly indestructible objects, Arthur put his foot down and takes him downstairs to his training rooms.

They discover that although using spells works, most of the time Merlin doesn’t need to say anything at all, simply makes things happen as he wants - though, as he explains to Arthur, the words sometimes help channel it and keep his thoughts focused, which Arthur suspects is probably one of the reasons spells were invented in the first place.

February bleeds into March and Arthur swaps his winter coat for a jacket.

He takes Merlin out a few times and they go to museums and, once, to an art exhibit Mithian insists on dragging them along to. It’s nice to get out of the flat, but at the same time frustrating and exhausting being forced to pretend they’re nothing more then friends, or worse, that Merlin is just an accessory Arthur has decided to take along.

There’s memographs of them, but thankfully nothing incriminating, and the sale of M-RYS models booms at the amount of media presence. His father is pleased, gloating even, and misses no opportunity to tell Arthur what a great businessman he’s become. Arthur clenches his teeth and mostly says nothing.

On the whole, not that much has changed since the discovery of Merlin’s magic. Merlin is still irresistible and sometimes Arthur wants nothing more than to leave everything behind and take Merlin somewhere where they don’t have to pretend they’re something they’re not, where they don’t have to worry about ridiculous things like the media or what anyone would say if they found out.

It’s not even the fact that they’re sleeping together. Using your android for sex is normal, which is why they come equipped with all the relevant parts and programming. In fact, the whole world is probably assuming he’s sleeping with Merlin, but it’s the thought of something more that’s scandalous. Arthur is far from the first person to enter into a relationship with his android - sometimes it’s easy, after all, to cross from one thing to the other. But those people are usually met with a mixture of pity and derision and Arthur can vividly imagine the impact this kind of revelation would have on his life. He can already see the headlines, dragging up the whole Sophia business again, maybe dropping in a few hints about how he might be losing it after all, just like his sister. Arthur can certainly do without all of this.

Merlin isn’t happy about it, Arthur knows, though he never says anything. There’s still a dangerous glint in Merlin’s eyes whenever there’s any mention of Sophia and Arthur knows that he’d probably rather chop his hand off than put Arthur through anything like the fiasco four years ago. And Arthur is pathetically grateful and pathetically in love, and more often than not, he feels like he’s about to burst with it and wants nothing more than to shout it from the rooftops, to tell everyone and their pet that he loves Merlin and they can all just stuff it.

It’s what Arthur is thinking about right now, the book in his lap long since forgotten. He looks at Merlin, curled up next to him with his fingers already holding the next page of the tome he’s reading, ready to turn it even while he still has to finish the current paragraph, the way he always does. And it’s one of those times where Arthur can hardly restrain himself, where it feels like everything inside him is about to explode out of him - leaking out at the seams, unable to be contained by his body.

And so he puts his book down, then snatches Merlin’s from his hands, ignoring the protests as he gently pushes Merlin down, spreading him out on the couch and kisses him until he can’t breathe. And Merlin moans into his mouth, all protests forgotten, and parts his thighs for Arthur, just as he always does, lets Arthur settle between them as he clutches at Arthur’s shoulders until Arthur crawls beneath the cover where it's hot and stuffy, and nuzzles his way into Merlin's fly. He drags his lips over Merlin’s cock, mourning the fact that Merlin has no scent of his own, before pushing the thought away and taking Merlin’s hard cock into his mouth, sucking it down greedily. He holds Merlin’s twitching hips, echoes the desperate sounds from above - muffled, humming moans as he takes Merlin deeper, sucks him harder. It's fast and messy and Arthur wants to do nothing but this for the rest of his life. Merlin comes with a harsh groan, gripping Arthur's hair tight enough to hurt and Arthur can hear the carefully stacked books fly off the coffee table and tumble to the floor as Merlin’s come floods his mouth in a hot rush. Arthur swallows it all, mostly neutral and with the barest hint of salty bitterness, and barely needs to touch his own leaking cock before he comes too, stifling strangled moans in the soft crease of Merlin's thigh, before collapsing there, spent and panting.

And Merlin wriggles down, drags the cover over both their heads and kisses Arthur some more, pushing a gentle tongue into his mouth and curling into him until Arthur is so drowsy that he falls asleep then and there, with his nose pressed into the soft, familiar warmth of Merlin’s neck.

*

Arthur wakes to Merlin shooting up beside him with a muffled shout, the cover slipping off them and onto the floor.

“Merlin?” he asks, voice raspy from sleep.

Merlin doesn’t answer, his back curved forward from from where he’s hugging his knees to his chest. He’s shaking again and Arthur drags himself up into a sitting position.

He fishes the cover from the floor, wrapping it around Merlin alongside his arms. Merlin abandons his legs and presses into Arthur, his face seeking the groove of his neck and his trembling hands scrabbling restlessly against Arthur’s chest, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt until they reach skin and settle on his back, holding him tightly enough to hurt.

Arthur almost expects Merlin to be hot and clammy, but of course when his fingers thread through Merlin’s hair and skim up his spine, he’s just as soft and dry as ever, his body the same, carefully calculated temperature as always. Arthur cradles him closer, wishing he could drive away the shivers with the force of his arms alone.

“What happened?” he asks softly, black hair brushing his lips as he presses them to Merlin’s head.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, hoarse and quiet. His fingers dig just a little deeper into Arthur’s skin. “There was this-this strange light and” He swallows, Arthur can feel it, hear the rawness of it in his voice as he goes on. “I tried to move, but I couldn’t, then I tried calling out, but my voice wouldn’t work and I was all alone and all I could see was this light and- it was so cold, Arthur. So cold, I thought I was going to freeze. It was as if the ice was _inside_ me-”

“Shhh,” Arthur says, throat tight. “It-” The words _It was just a dream_ on the tip of his tongue, instinctive from years of soothing Morgana. But Merlin doesn’t sleep, doesn’t _dream_. “It wasn’t real,” Arthur finishes lamely.

Merlin doesn’t say anything and Arthur sighs, pressing his lips to the curve of his shoulder. When they lie back down, Arthur puts his hand on Merlin’s chest, waiting for his QuanticHeart to slow and settle into a more even rhythm, before letting his eyes close again.

*

It only gets worse after that.

On Wednesday, three days after it first happened, Arthur finds Merlin standing in the middle of the living area, motionless. He doesn’t react to Arthur’s presence. A stab of fear propels Arthur forward, but when he reaches Merlin, his eyes are empty, void of life and with that faintly glassy sheen that androids tend to have when you look at them closely enough.

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats for the second time, and his voice is trembling despite his best efforts.

Finally, Merlin moves, but the emptiness remains and is merely joined by an equally empty and painfully generic smile.

“Good evening, Mr Pendragon,” Merlin says, fake and cheerful and Arthur’s insides run cold. “Do you want to give me a name?”

Arthur knows a glitch when he sees one, but he’s hardly able to form a single thought beyond the panic building in his chest. He tries to breathe through it, but it’s almost impossible.

He grabs onto Merlin’s shoulders, holds on tight enough to hurt, but Merlin doesn’t flinch. He keeps on smiling his hollow smile and Arthur feels the irrational urge to shake him. He doesn’t, instead forces himself to pry away his fingers and take Merlin’s hand, for his own comfort more than anything else.

Merlin curls his fingers around Arthur’s, obedient and mechanic. Arthur almost drops it again, but can’t bring himself to.

“Your name is Merlin,” Arthur says, adopting the voice he uses at work when he’s testing a new piece of tech. “What’s your last memory status?”

“Default factory settings,” Merlin says promptly. “Personalisation process is in progress. Would you like to give me specific character traits?”

It’s a standard question, something all their androids ask when their owners first boot them. The personalisation process is the time the android takes to mould itself into the desired settings of its owner, a sort of post-booting process that takes about an hour, before the android settles and becomes how he’s supposed to be. With Merlin that had never been an issue - until now, it seems.

“No,” Arthur says, croaks. He clears his throat. “Let’s go over there so I can hook you up to my computer.”

Merlin follows obediently, doesn’t say anything as Arthur gesture for him to sit in his customary place on the floor. Arthur connects him quickly, the movements practiced. He opens the coding window, but everything comes up green. Arthur scans it anyway, but there’s nothing - everything is as it should be, just as it always is. He very much feels like breaking something.

He reaches down, intending to remove the cable, when the code suddenly shifts, flickering ominously as a line of gibberish appears. One the floor, Merlin makes a choked sound and doubles over. Arthur grabs him, sliding off the chair and wraps a steadying arm around him as he slumps against Arthur, gasping.

When he raises his head, he’s himself again, face pinched as he shivers. Arthur yanks off his suit jacket, wraps it around Merlin along with his arms, even though he already knows it won’t help. Merlin must know, too, but he curls close all the same.

“Arthur,” Merlin says weakly and relief washes through him like a tidal wave. “What happened?”

Arthur shakes his head, clutches Merlin to his chest. 

“I don’t know.” He buries his nose in Merlin’s hair. “I don’t know.”

*

It happens two more times after that. Once in the middle of a conversation, Merlin’s face turning blank from one second to the next, the other one night while he’s cooking. Arthur has to drag him away from the heating platform, telling Elba to quickly shut everything down.

The blackouts, as they’ve started calling them, follow no pattern whatsoever. Arthur checks and re-checks Merlin’s coding, but it remains the same, no more glitchy than after Arthur first took him home and worked himself into a frenzy trying to find out what made Merlin the way he is.

Merlin always says the same thing. There’s a strange light, it’s cold and he can’t move, can’t speak. He resurfaces shivering and with no sense of what happened while he’d spaced out and no idea how much time has passed. While Merlin is under, he automatically reverts to factory settings, though they are raw at best and make him seem rather more like one of the very first prototypes than the finished product. Each time, the personalisation process sets in, but by the next time a blackout happens, Merlin is wiped clean once again.

The whole thing freaks Arthur out in a way he’s rarely experienced. He gets paranoid about it, his insomnia returning full force and he gets into the habit of shooting up in bed, halfway between sleeping and awake and his head pounding with lack of sleep, reaching for Merlin if only to have him curve a hand around his cheek and soothe him back to sleep. It’s been years since Arthur’s been this bad, back to when Morgana first started showing signs of losing her mind and Arthur had startled awake on the heels of some terror laden horror fantasies, turning panicked eyes on his sister to make sure she was still there, still recognised him.

“Do you think I’m dying?” Merlin asks one night as they lie in bed, so softly Arthur almost doesn’t hear. And once he does, he wishes he hadn’t.

His fingers dig into Merlin’s shoulder, his heart stuttering painfully in his chest. He glares at Merlin, has to if he’s supposed to keep it together.

“What are you talking about?”

Merlin smoothes a hand across Arthur’s side, gently fits his palms to his ribs.

“I don’t know, I just feel,” he hesitates, visibly searching for words. He looks at Arthur, eyes dark in the dimness of the room. “I feel like I’m falling apart. Disintegrating, somehow. Like something’s eating at me from the inside.” His face is pinched, Arthur can see it despite the near-pitch blackness. “I hate feeling like this. It’s almost as if I’m not even myself anymore. Sometimes…” Merlin trails off, then doesn’t go on at all.

Arthur only holds on tighter, knowing that if Merlin were human, he’d be leaving bruises. But when Arthur will look tomorrow, there’ll be nothing there, only smooth, pale skin.

“What?” he says softly, at once wanting to hear it and never wanting to hear Merlin speak of this again.

Merlin looks away, ducks his head and follows the patterns his fingers are drawing into Arthur’s chest. Arthur stills his hand, covers it with his own and tangles their fingers together. Merlin doesn’t look up and when he speaks, it’s even softer than before.

“Sometimes I think that if I cut myself, I’ll bleed, but then I can feel all these wires and the lines of code and I feel like tearing it all out.”

Arthur’s blood runs cold. “Merlin, listen to me.” Something in his tone must’ve alarmed Merlin, because his eyes snap to Arthur’s in an instant. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You aren’t dying and whatever this is- whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out, alright?”

Merlin sighs and reaches up to smooth out Arthur’s pained frown with a tender sweep of his thumb.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quietly. “I’m not going to hurt myself or anything. Everything’s just…very confusing, that’s all.”

Arthur’s chest is tight, his jaw hurting with how hard he’s clenching it. He forces a nod, unable to say anything. Merlin presses in close, closer.

“Kiss me?” he breathes.

And Arthur does, desperately, and when Merlin drags him on top and wraps his long legs around him, Arthur doesn’t think, just pushes against him, sucks a line of harsh kisses into Merlin’s throat as their hips hitch and grind together until everything turns hot and slick between them and Arthur is all but sobbing into Merlin’s mouth, holding him like he thinks he might disappear any moment.

*

Wound tight and with no hope of improvement, Arthur is filled to the brim with fear that mostly just tips over into anger and turns him into an ill-tempered storm cloud. His employees tiptoe around him, treating him like a wild animal and, at the moment, Arthur can’t even fault them for it.

Even Lance and Leon have taken to avoiding him and Arthur is almost grateful for it.

It’s therefore no surprise at all that, when he returns from a personal meeting with Gaius down at the labs, he completely misses Nimueh as she rounds the corner. They crash together, the impact enough to knock the stack of tablets from her hands and onto the floor. She glares at him and folds her arms, making no move to bend down and retrieve them. Arthur scowls, but goes to one knee, snatching the tablets off the floor.

He almost shoves them back into her arms without looking, when he catches a glimpse of a familiar emblem. Curious, he glances down and finds a strange list, an order it seems, signed by the head of the Albion military. Quickly glancing at one of the other tablets, Arthur barely gets a glance of what appears to be some sort of security footage, the memograph showing a cloaked man whose hood is knocked off as two of HQ’s androids grab him from either side, the glass dragon looming behind him. Arthur glimpses dark curly hair and a face twisted in a mix of fear and anger, before Nimueh yanks the tablets out of his hands.

Arthur’s eyes snap to hers, but her face is unreadable.

“Your father is still waiting for this week’s sales report,” is all she says, voice clipped as usual.

Arthur barely gets his throat to work. “Of course.”

Arthur doesn’t go to his father’s office, instead he spends the rest of the afternoon trying to find anything that would explain the military emblem on one of their documents. He finds nothing.

*

Merlin looks deceptively normal when Arthur strides into the living area that evening. He’s in his usual place, though instead of an ereader, he’s balancing the book of spells on his lap, heavy and cumbersome thing that it is. Arthur can tell he’s immersed, even as he absently tilts his head back for a kiss.

Arthur doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t think he can talk at all right now, his head still reeling with yet another mystery to add onto his ever-growing list. He goes to shower and change, then rummages around listlessly in the kitchen. He isn’t hungry, but he thinks he should eat, after having had nothing all day other than that piece of toast in the morning.

He settles for an apple, plucking it from its pod, and takes it with him to the holo-desk. When half of it’s gone, Arthur’s stomach protesting every bite, he feels Merlin’s presence behind him and Merlin’s arms snake around his shoulders a moment later. For all his clumsiness, Merlin can be eerily silent when he wants to be, with or without his shoes.

Arthur leans back against him, instinctive and somehow relieved, his eyes closing without thought as he lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Merlin asks softly, his lips brushing Arthur’s temple, then his cheek.

Arthur snorts, the sound rather closer to a sob than a laugh, and he pulls away, out of Merlin’s arms.

“Let me see, the list is pretty extensive right about now. Would you like to pick something, or shall I?”

Arthur immediately regrets the harshness of his anger, the confrontation in his tone. But he feels cornered, vulnerable, and lashing out feels like the only thing he can do after a lifetime of the same.

Merlin doesn’t take the invitation for a fight, but his expression is a little tighter and Arthur sighs and rubs his face, then tugs him closer, leaning back far enough to allow Merlin to swing his leg over Arthur’s thighs and slide into his lap, his arms once more settling around Arthur’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, leaning his forehead against Merlin’s chest, hiding his face.

“It’s alright,” Merlin says, carding his fingers though Arthur’s hair. Arthur’s eyes slide shut, pleasure tingling across his scalp. Merlin tugs a little, teasing. “I’m used to it.”

Arthur snorts. “If you call me a prat again, I’ll sleep alone tonight.”

Merlin huffs a laugh. “Serious threats.” He tugs at another strand of Arthur’s hair, then lets his hand slide lower, his fingers kneading gently at the tension knotting the muscles at the back of Arthur’s neck and shoulders. Arthur groans, helpless, and tilts his head further forward, to give better excess. “I’d almost believe it if I didn’t know for a fact that you can’t sleep without me.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur all but moans as Merlin hits a particularly tense spot. He arches his back into the massaging fingers, like a cat.

“You say the sweetest things,” Merlin says, dry as dust. He digs his fingers in, expertly kneading out some more kinks and Arthur distantly remembers, through a haze of pain-pleasure, that he’d included massaging in the programming. He feels like a genius, feels the aching lines of his muscles finally relaxing just the tiniest bit. Really, he’s full of amazing ideas.

When Arthur’s all but boneless with it and his face has started feeling numb from being meshed against Merlin’s chest for so long, Merlin stops, smoothing out his kneading into a few gentle rubs.

“C’mon, let’s move to the couch, yeah?” he says, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s cheek and sliding off him. “It’s my turn to pick a movie.”

Arthur gives him a look. “Actually, no. It’s my turn. I’m not watching another one of those cheesy romances.”

“That was _one_ time!” Merlin protests. “Elena recommended it!”

“Exactly.” Arthur lets himself fall into the couch cushions. “And then there were at least three of these weird artsy things Mithian talked you into, where no one talks and it’s all strange imagery and disconnected dialogue.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “That’s because you’re a philistine.”

“Me?” Arthur says, eyebrows shooting up. “My taste in movies is impeccable.”

Merlin snorts. “Yeah, right. If no one gets hit over the head five minutes into the film, it’s a miracle. That, or those pseudo kung-fu movies.”

“They’re not,” Arthur says pointedly. “Kung-fu movies. There isn’t even any kung-fu in them!”

“No, just lots of sword waving.” Arthur must’ve looked appropriately scandalised, because Merlin flaps his hand at him. “You know what I mean.”

“I love how you call me a philistine and then refer to sword fighting as kung-fu.”

“Oh fine, whatever, let’s just watch one of those historic thingies, with horses and stuff. I know it’s what gets your blood going, all about honourable knights and people dying for each other.”

Arthur throws back his head, laughing. “Historic thingies with horses and stuff?” he gasps. “You’re bloody hopeless!”

“If you don’t stop laughing at me, I’m going to put on the other romance Elena recommended the other day.”

Arthur bits the inside of his cheek, trying to force himself into something more sober.

“I’m stopping, I’m stopping.” He powers up the holo-projector with a wave of his hand, then starts scrolling through their film selection. “See, how does that sound?”

Merlin shrugs, tugs the cover over both of them and curls into Arthur’s side. “Looks just the same as all the others, so I suppose it’ll do.”

Arthur shoves him a little, but contradicts himself almost immediately by wrapping his arm around Merlin and settling him more comfortably against him. He orders out the lights and flicks his fingers at the holo-projector to start the movie. 

*

He doesn’t get to tell Merlin about the emblem incident until the next day. They’re in the kitchen, Arthur eating dinner at the breakfast bar and Merlin perched on the counter opposite, one of his legs drawn, the toes of his socked foot curling against the edge.

He’s frowning, his lips pursed.

“You know, I looked through that book of spells again, and I found some stuff that might help us find out more about that sedatives business,” he says.

Arthur looks up, echoing the frown, and abandons his fully laden fork on the plate. “You want to use magic? For this?”

Merlin shrugs. “Why not? I think it could help and the sooner we know what’s going on the better. I just- I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about all of this.”

Arthur pushes away his food, folds his arms on the bar. “A bad feeling?”

“C’mon, Arthur,” Merlin says, a little sharply. “A mysterious list of sedatives, then that thing you saw, whatever it was, with the signature of the head of military - you can’t tell me that this doesn’t look bad. What if your father’s involved in some kind of, I don’t know, like experiments or something.”

“Experiments? Are you even listening to yourself?” Arthur asks incredulously. “You can’t just go round accusing people blindly!”

“It’s not blind,” Merlin insists. “Think about it, why else would anyone need this amount of sedatives? It’s not like Pendragon Enterprises runs a hospital or something. They don’t even have anything to do with people, they make tech. So why sedatives of all things? It must be something involving humans, maybe animals?”

“What do you think this is? The dark ages? No one’s experimented on living things for hundreds of years! And you just said it, we make tech, so what need would we have to experiment on humans? Or animals for that matter? It makes absolutely no sense!”

“But _something’s_ going on, isn’t it? You know it is, otherwise you wouldn’t have started poking around!” Merlin stops abruptly, takes a breath, visibly reining himself in. He lets his leg drop, long fingers curling around the counter-edge. “Look, I understand that he’s your father and you want to defend him, but there’s clearly something - or should I say a few somethings - that your father hasn’t told you about.”

“I’ve never had reason to doubt my father’s word,” Arthur says stiffly.

Merlin throws his hands up. “That’s because you’ve never questioned him!” His voice is louder now, clearly frustrated. “I know your father is a powerful man and the way he’s built everything from scratch is impressive, but that doesn’t mean that he’s always done right by you! Being a father isn’t like running a company, and offering love and affection certainly isn’t a business deal! Just look at you, Arthur! You’ve been practically drilled from birth! You’re expected to deal with everything yourself and are almost single handedly taking care of your mentally ill sister - and still you’re standing there trying to defend that egotistical prick!”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” Arthur all but roars, voice close to breaking but thundering in its anger. “He’s my _father_ and you’ll show him some respect! You don’t even know him!”

Merlin is off the counter now, eyes flashing. “No, I don’t know him, because he doesn’t even bother coming here to see you!”

Arthur doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. “We see each other at the office every day!”

Merlin makes a disbelieving sound, waving his arms. “Listen to yourself! I can’t believe you!” He fixes Arthur with a look, jaw hard and tight. “Arthur, you’re not just his business associate. You’re his _son_! He should care about how you are, not just about your sales reports! All this inherent guilt you’re carrying around- he put that there! And he had no right, Arthur, no right to make you feel this way, like you have to weigh everything you do or feel with all of these expectations. You’re your own person. You don’t need him and I really wish you’d see that!”

Arthur’s throat feels like gravel and he has to swallow around the choking lump there. 

“So you think I’m just a dumb fool who can’t think for himself and only does as he’s told,” it comes out raw and hoarse, shaky.

“No!” Merlin looks distinctly horrified. “Arthur that’s not-”

But Arthur can’t take another moment of this, cuts over Merlin’s feeble attempt at reassurance.

“Well, I’m glad we got that out of the way.”

He wishes he had the strength to flee the flat, but his legs just about carry him as far as the bedroom before they give.

*

Merlin comes to him an hour later.

It isn’t that late yet, but Arthur hasn’t bothered switching on any lights, leaving the room illuminated with the city lights from outside. The hover-track beyond the window closest to him makes the glossy-white surface of his bed appear green. Arthur had stared unseeingly at its reflection until his eyes had watered in protest, then done the mature thing and hid beneath one of his pillows.

The bed dips and Arthur’s grip on the pillow turns white-knuckled.

Merlin’s body is warm, familiar the way it stretches along Arthur’s, his hand gentle as he touches Arthur’s clenched fist. He eases the pillow from his grip, Arthur’s fingers convulsing with indecision - relaxing and tightening in fits, unsure whether he wants to give up his shield and become vulnerable again. But Merlin is relentless, stubborn mule that he is, and the pillow is pried from Arthur’s fingers with a final tug.

Arthur can feel the scowl marring his face, knows that he must look wild and stormy, but Merlin meets his gaze unflinchingly.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Arthur says, voice rough as he turns his head away.

Merlin’s palm is soft and dry as it cups Arthur’s cheek, gently turning it back towards him.

“Then don’t talk,” he whispers, then kisses Arthur softly.

Arthur doesn’t want to, he really, really doesn’t, except for all the ways he does, and he responds before he even knows his lips have moved. It’s tender, and some might have called it chaste, but Arthur has never been able to find anything chaste about the way Merlin’s mouth makes him feel.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin mutters, presses it into his skin as his lips slide to Arthur’s jaw. “I should’t just have thrown these things at you.” There’s a rush of warm breath against Arthur’s neck as Merlin exhales. His head drops to Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur remains perfectly still. “I just get so frustrated. You don’t know what it’s like, seeing you struggle. It hurts when you get like this, when you feel like you’re somehow not good enough. But you _are_. You really, _really_ are. You can be such a prat, but you only get tetchy because you care. You’re good, Arthur, you are.” 

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes.

“You’re perfect to me and I love you.”

Arthur wraps his arms around him, all but crushing him against his body, unable to get anything past his painfully tight throat. And when Arthur kisses him, hot and desperate, it’s as if he can taste the words on Merlin’s lips. He runs his fingers through Merlin’s hair, cups the curve of his jaw between his palms and keeps on kissing him, turning into the warmth of Merlin’s body and urging him onto his back, pressing him into the sheets as he curls his tongue deeper.

Merlin moans, whimpers, tiny sounds muffled by Arthur’s lips, his back arching towards Arthur as he wraps his arms around him, his legs, pulling Arthur down against him until they’re melded together, no space left anywhere between them. Arthur pins him down, pushes their hips together, at first intending nothing more than to get closer, impossibly closer, but then their cocks meet and they’re both hard, burning hot even through layers of clothes, and Arthur can’t help the choked groan, can’t help but grind down again, slow and deliberate, making Merlin claw at his back and push up against him.

Drawing back just a little, Arthur supports himself on his elbows, his breathing harsh in the otherwise silent room. He brushes back Merlin’s short fringe, kisses his forehead, then first one of those perfect cheekbones, then the other. Merlin’s eyes are dark and he’s panting, with desire rather than exertion and Arthur can’t help it, can’t keep his hips still, rutting into the irresistible warmth between Merlin’s legs.

“I’m sorry, too,” Arthur chokes out, barely more than a murmur, lowering his head to bury it in Merlin’s neck. Merlin holds him tighter, gasps beneath him as their hips hitch together once more. “I just don’t want you to be right. And-And I’m scared. I’m so scared for you, I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose you, Merlin. I can’t.”

Merlin cradles him close, winds his fingers into Arthur’s hair, kisses Arthur’s clothed shoulder. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. And you won’t.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Arthur says miserably.

“I can,” Merlin insists. “I am.”

They kiss again, wet and messy and Arthur feels too hot, his clothes itching uncomfortably against over-sensitised skin and there’s sweat building along his spine, his hair already damp with it. Arthur’s hands find their way under Merlin’s tshirt, running along the faint lines of his ribs, lingering on his nipples and making him moan and arch his back; his skin as soft and dry as ever.

“Off,” Arthur gasps into Merlin’s mouth, yanking at his shirt.

They wrestle out of their clothes, taking twice as long because they’re both unable to stop kissing.

“I want you,” Merlin says, gasping. “Want you inside me, Arthur, please.”

And Arthur groans, harsh and desperate, biting at Merlin’s neck and pushing his leaking cock against Merlin’s thigh. It’s hot and not enough, never enough. Dizzy with desire, Arthur scrabbles for the lube, finds it stuffed under a pillow. He knows he doesn’t really need to prepare Merlin, knows that he can’t hurt him there, but he wants to do this properly, wants to make it good and real and theirs. 

Finding Merlin’s lips with his own, Arthur kisses him as he slicks his fingers. Merlin makes a needy sound, arching against him and lifting his leg to fold it around Arthur’s hip, baring himself for Arthur’s touch. Arthur presses his finger against the rim, circling gently, mumbling _Okay?_ and Merlin moans, wordless and hungry, and pushes against him. Arthur kisses him again and when his finger finally slips inside, the kiss turns filthy as Merlin groans around Arthur’s tongue, his hips snapping down to get Arthur’s finger in deeper. It’s slick and easy, so easy, and Arthur draws back to add another, before pushing in again, asking again whether it’s-

“Alright?”

“Yes,” Merlin gasps, breathless, his fingers twisting into Arthur’s hair. Arthur curls his fingers and he knows he’s hit the right spot when Merlin all but shoots off the bed, his grip on Arthur’s hair turning into a sharp tug. He makes a harsh sound of desire that has Arthur’s cock throb with want. “Fuck, _fuck_ , Arthur please. Please, now, I want it now, I want-”

Arthur groans and withdraws, his fingers leaving shiny, slick trails on Merlin’s skin as he grabs onto his thigh and helps it shift into a better position.

There should be more resistance, at least a little bit of pain, but there isn’t - only the hot, wet slide of Arthur’s cock sinking in, Merlin clenching around him snugly but comfortably. Arthur hips snap forward, harder than he means to, but so good _so good, so-_

“Good, Merlin, so good, fuck, god-” Arthur mumbles senselessly, presses the words into Merlin’s mouth as he ruts into him with a lack of control that scares him, but has pleasure sparking down his spine all the same. Merlin meets him easily, lifts his hips into Arthur’s thrusts almost wildly as he sucks on Arthur’s tongue and bites his lips, saying _yes, Arthur, yes, yes, yes_ and Arthur moans, his throat raw with the amount of times he repeats Merlin’s name, groans it into his skin and keeps on saying things not even he understands as their tongues tangle together.

And Arthur wants it to last, he always does and always fails. He comes first, his hips stuttering and losing their rhythm as he spills deep and hot inside Merlin, lips fused to Merlin’s neck, teeth sinking in without leaving a single mark.

Merlin clutches him close, holds Arthur together even as he falls apart, tongue hot on Arthur’s skin where he laps at the salt of his sweat. Arthur collapses onto him, into him, feels Merlin petting him gently but with a desperate edge, smoothing Arthur’s slick hair back even as he curls his fingers into it and drags Arthur’s panting mouth into a sloppy kiss.

“So close,” Merlin gasps as he licks deeper, past Arthur’s lips, hips still restless and his cock pressing hot and hard against Arthur’s stomach. “So- please, need- _Arthur_ -”

And Arthur shushes him, gentle and inane, kissing him and kissing him even though his lungs are protesting and it’s a panting mess full of too-much tongue and edged with sharp teeth. Arthur’s cock slips free, both of them grunting at the loss, but Arthur doesn’t let himself dwell on it, his fingers finding the wet softness of Merlin’s hole and shoving back inside, curling and pushing just right to make Merlin sob and arch into him.

They’re on their sides now, Merlin’s thigh slung high over Arthur’s side with Arthur’s fingers deep inside, slick with lube and his own come and he fucks them into Merlin again and again. Merlin’s jaw is slack, his mouth hot against Arthur’s own, the curve of his cheek, his chin. Fumbling clumsily, Arthur tries to get his free hand on Merlin’s weeping cock, but Merlin’s hips are wild and restless, pushing into Arthur, and before Arthur can think about shifting their positions, about sliding down to take Merlin into his mouth, Merlin is groaning harshly, gasping _like this, like- fuck yes, yes_ and promptly shudders against him as he comes between them, hot and frantic, clenching around Arthur’s fingers in a way that makes Arthur weak and desperately hot all over again.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Merlin asks some indeterminable time later, the words a little muffled against Arthur’s chest.

Arthur huff out a laugh, drags his fingers up Merlin’s spine and into his hair.

“Idiot,” he murmurs, fond and soft, kissing Merlin’s temple and lingering there as his eyes close.

He can feel Merlin’s smile against his skin.

*

It’s not easy, but Arthur manages to drag up the footage from between deleted files and encryptions. The date is the one from the night of the supposedly failed break-in, but looking at this, there’s nothing failed about it. The thief managed to bypass security and enter Pendragon HQ without much fuss. When he calls an ascender, it’s clear that he means to go down, most likely to the labs.

But just as the ascender’s door opens, two HQ androids catch up to him. One tries to grab his arm, the other holds a phaser set to stun. The thief cleverly twists away, before bringing his arm up in a swinging gesture. It’s dark even with the faint night time lighting inside the building, which is why there’s no mistaking when the thief’s eyes glow gold.

The android with the phaser is flung back and the thief - _sorcerer_ , Arthur thinks incredulously - tries to shake off the other one, but the androids at HQ are nothing if not impeccably programmed. The integrated stunner in the android’s fingers zaps the sorcerer and he falters. It’s not as powerful as a phaser stunner - or a jellyfish for that matter - but strong enough to unbalance him. Enough time for three more androids to appear. A vicious squabble breaks out, the sorcerer fighting tooth and nail, and it almost looks as though he’s winning when suddenly his eyes go very wide and not a moment later, he slumps, crumbling right into the arms of the android in front of him.

Arthur rewinds and zooms in a little, re-watching the last minute and that’s when he spots it. One of the androids had administered a hypospray.

Feeling ill, Arthur watches the androids carry the sorcerer into the ascender. They go down to the labs and Arthur follows their pursuit until they enter one of the labs- 

And don’t return. Or at least, the sorcerer doesn’t.

Arthur skips forward, checks every piece of security footage he can get his hands on, watches as police starts swarming the building, sees first Nimueh, then his father, then Leon and finally himself arrive. But the sorcerer is gone, vanished somewhere in Pendragon HQ where, apparently, the security surveillance doesn’t reach.

He tries tracking the androids that had taken the sorcerer away and sees them again later, happily cleaning their designated area.

Arthur thinks of list-long orders of sedatives, of signatures by the military and people vanishing in this very building and his stomach twists sharply. He saves the footage on his private tablet and covers his tracks, then leaves shortly after without speaking to anyone.

*

 “You were right,” Arthur says that evening. His voice is tight and Arthur doesn’t want a fight, but he’s still so _angry_ , even while his head is throbbing with exhaustion. “I looked at some security footage today. Of the night of the break-in. Here-” He passes Merlin the tablet. “You should have a look at it.”

They’ve settled on the couch, Merlin all wrapped up, but still shivering. And the sight makes Arthur even angrier. It seems that he’s doomed with the fact that he’s never going to be any use to the people he loves. 

Merlin throws him a concerned look, but knows better than to ask, and turns his attention to the tablet in his hands.

Arthur doesn’t watch his reaction, just leans his head back against the couch and looks at the hover-cars going past; at the bright beams from the entertainment district rising towards the sky in the distance. He knows when when Merlin realises the man on the footage is a sorcerer, can hear him suck in a sharp breath, but it isn’t until he speaks that Arthur turns his head.

Merlin’s eyes are wide, his fingers all but crushing the tablet in their hold.

“Mordred,” he breathes and Arthur frowns, not having expected that at all.

He sits up. “What?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know, I just. I’ve seen him before. The sorcerer, I’m sure of it. His name is Mordred.”

Arthur stares at him, equal parts alarmed and surprised. “What are you talking about? How can you have seen him?”

Merlin looks shaken, even more so when a particularly harsh shiver runs through his body.

“I don’t know, Arthur,” he says, his death-grip on the tablet tightening further, kneading anxiously. “I just _do_. I think-I think he might be my friend.”

Arthur lets out a breath, reaches out to gently pry the tablet free and replace it with one of his hands. Merlin’s fingers close around it, tight.

“Merlin, that’s impossible. You know it is,” Arthur says gently.

“I know.” Merlin looks away, biting his lip. “It’s stupid. Forget I said anything.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting a headache, but seeing the miserable twist of Merlin’s mouth, Arthur can’t help but shift and lean closer. He slides his finger under Merlin’s chin, gently tipping it up as he brushes a kiss against his lips.

“We’ll find out what happened to him,” he says. “And what the hell else is going on here.”

Merlin looks at him. “How? What are we going to do now?”

Arthur tightens his jaw, determined. “I need to get my hands onto some blueprints. Proper ones. If there’s a secret room somewhere, there must be some form of documentation.”

*

It takes Arthur the better part of the week to dig his way through the database and he’s honestly surprised that his father hasn’t had him summoned yet, considering that his work has been suffering in favour of all the snooping. When he finds them, all last hopes of a misunderstanding are ground to dust.

The encryption on them is tight, clever, and there’s no way for Arthur to get them off the server without giving himself away, can hardly keep the window open long enough to memorise them.

“I found them,” he tells Merlin as he sheds his suit jacket later that night. “It’s not just a room. It’s four entire floors.”

Merlin looks at him, eyes wide. “You mean a secret facility?”

Arthur nods grimly. “It sure looks like it.”

They sit in silence for a moment and Arthur tries his best to come to terms with the fact that his father has apparently not only been hiding his involvement with the military, but an entire set of secret labs. Merlin’s hand sneaks into his and Arthur grips back, desperately tight. Merlin’s skin is warm and smooth, as dry as ever in contrast to Arthur’s own slightly sweat-slick hand. The lines on his palms are almost indiscernible; Arthur wants to draw them with his tongue all the same.

“How are we going to find out for sure?” Merlin asks, drawing Arthur from his slightly dazed thoughts.

“I need access to my father’s personal system,” he says grimly. “But I’ll need to get into his office for that.”

Merlin sighs, giving Arthur’s fingers another gentle squeeze. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” Arthur agrees. “No it’s really not.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes fixed on the city beyond the window, lights reflecting in his eyes - and he looks suddenly so still, so unreachable- 

Fear grips Arthur like a giant fist, thinking that maybe Merlin’s having another blackout - expects him to turn towards him any minute to smile his fake smile and call him _Mr Pendragon_. He shudders and Merlin’s eyes flicker to his, brow furrowed in concern.

And Arthur lets out a breath, his lungs slowly loosening and letting him breathe once more. No blackout. _Not this time_ , a vicious voice adds in the back of Arthur’s mind. He pushes it away.

“Hey,” Merlin says softly, drawing Arthur closer against his side. Arthur gives in and nuzzles Merlin’s cheek, wraps an arm around him and sighs when Merlin wraps him into a hug. “You okay? You sure about all of this? We don’ have to do this, we can probably find another way-”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, but can’t bring himself to move away just yet.

Merlin cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair, curves them around the nape of his neck. “Tell me what you need.”

Arthur takes a moment to collect himself, then draws back a little. “First, I need to contact someone,” he says. “And then I’ll have to ask you to break the law.”

Merlin tilts his head to touch their foreheads together, brief but close, then sits back a little and gives Arthur a teasing grin.

“Oh, if that’s all,” he says, dryly. 

Arthur shoves him, but keeps their fingers linked, giving them a playful tug. “Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “So who’s this mysterious someone, then?”

Arthur sobers quickly. “A hacker,” he says, thinking about his friend that he hasn’t seen in over five years. “His name is Gwaine.”

*

Arthur has only been Below a couple of times, quick trips hardly worth mentioning. He’s never had reason to before and, most importantly, Arthur preferred his body well and intact, not mauled beyond recognition - which is undoubtedly what would happen if one of the gangs found out that Arthur Pendragon had practically served himself to them on a silver platter. Arthur wonders, briefly, how much his father would be willing to pay, to what lengths he would go to to see Arthur returned safely.

Not too long ago, Arthur’s answers would’ve been _everything_. But now, now he isn’t quite so sure anymore.

Dressed down in the plain garb of the people from Below, Arthur flies them as low as he can possibly excuse, then parks the hover-car in a what he hopes is an inconspicuous place. They put on the cloaks that Arthur had managed to convince Gwen to help get for him, before slipping out onto the closest footpath.

They are different here, so much closer to the ground; roofless and less well-kept. They spiral down steeply and without any of the artful twists, the metal floor treacherous and made for the much sturdier footwear of the lower people. No one with heels has any chance of taking even one step without falling and Arthur’s glad that he remembered to change his shoes as well as his clothes. There’s no doubt that otherwise he would’ve slipped and slid his way down on the smooth soles of his designer loafers.

And it only gets worse from there.

Arthur isn’t sure if things have always been this bad, but he’d like to think that he’d remember if they had. The small drizzle that had started when they’d left the flat has turned into something more consistent, but this far down the rain isn’t clean the way Arthur is used to. The drops, having caught against dirty walls and shop signs, leave greyish stains wherever they touch and Arthur huddles a little deeper into his grey cloak, grateful for an excuse to keep his head covered.

Hidden beneath their hoods, Arthur and Merlin easily blend into the sea of brown and grey cloaks from the people around them. Most of them look tattered, the hems worn and dirtied from brushing the filthy ground. Arthur thinks that their own won’t look much better after their little excursion.

Merlin presses in close to his side and Arthur doesn’t even think about it when he reaches for his hand. Their fingers tangle between the damp folds of their cloaks and stay there as they pick their way through the crowd.

They duck inconveniently placed wares from the dozens and dozens of stalls littering the streets, the road made even narrower by their presence in front of the already existing shops. Arthur recoils when they pass the stall of a - is that a _fisherman_? Both the stench and the glassy eyes of the dead animals almost makeing him retch. Arthur didn’t even know that people still eat _actual_ fish! Who wants to eat a dead animal when there’s perfectly decent meat and fish bases with the accompanying flavouring capsules?

“This is barbaric,” Arthur mutters when they’ve finally put a safe distance between them and the fish stall.

Merlin glances at him from beneath his hood and Arthur feels an odd sense of deja-vu. So much has happened since the day he’d taken Merlin from HQ. If anyone had told him then where he’d be in a few months he would’ve laughed in their face.

“They don’t have a choice,” Merlin says quietly. “Food bases and flavouring capsules are expensive. And even if they weren’t, they’re reserved for the upper people.” 

_People like you._

Though the words weren’t spoken out loud, they still hang between them for a moment.

“But that’s ridiculous,” Arthur says heatedly. “We’ve got more than enough! Enough to share them with the people here in any case!”

At the gentle tug of Merlin’s hand, Arthur stops. He turns to look at Merlin, bewildered and still seething with this newfound revelation, only to find Merlin smiling gently at him. It’s enough to instantly evaporate all of Arthur’s anger, his heart stuttering pathetically in his chest even as his breath hitches.

“Wha-” Arthur starts, confused and not a little dazed, but Merlin cuts him off with a soft kiss.

“I love you,” Merlin says, presses the words into his mouth with soft lips and the barest brush of a tongue.

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, still not quite used to hearing those words - spoken so earnestly and with such conviction.

“Merlin,” he says and he wants to say more, but the words won’t come.

Instead, he leans back in, taking Merlin’s lips and turning the kiss into something else, something wet and hot and a little desperate. Merlin makes the same soft sound he always does when Arthur kisses him and Arthur feels the gentle press of fingertips against his jaw, then the nape of his neck when Merlin pulls him closer, deeper into the kiss.

Arthur is already thinking about pushing Merlin into one of the dark shadows, into the mouth of an alley that is even dirtier than the street, but would make it possible for Arthur to press him against a wall and for his fingers to find a way beneath all these clothes. No one would know, and if they did, then they wouldn’t care. Not here.

But it’s right then, the moment where Arthur has finally talked himself into chucking all of his respectable upbringing out the window, that Merlin draws back and puts a finger to Arthur’s lips when he leans forward to chase his mouth.

Arthur kisses it and Merlin smiles, his breath warm when it brushes Arthur’s chilled cheek.

“Later,” he promises, ghosting one last kiss against Arthur’s ear and Arthur swallows and nods. 

They detangle themselves apart from their still entwined fingers and Arthur quickly looks around, but as expected, no one is even paying them the remotest bit of attention.

For just a moment, Arthur lets himself revel in the fact that for once he’s entirely free to do exactly as he pleases. No one here knows him, no one cares what he does and who he does it with. There’s no hidden cameras, no sneaky journalists that could spring the fact that they’d witnessed something on him in the next interview. For the first time ever, right here between smelly stalls and dirty streets with grey rain drenching his clothes, Arthur feels completely free.

*

They find Gwaine in an unmarked building, the old stonework lit eerily by flickering lights that Arthur hasn’t seen used outside old films and history books.

On the ground floor, someone is playing music at a deafening volume, the beat making the floor vibrate. Not far from the door, three children are playing some sort of game on an actual board, moving chipped pieces in turn to the faded dots of a dice. At the end of the hall, a pair of teenagers are making out heatedly, the girl’s nails short and natural and obviously painted by hand; her hair naturally grown and twisted into the simplest of buns.

They are giggling quietly into each other’s mouths between panting breaths and Arthur tries very hard not to be jealous. At their age, he was already working at Pendragon HQ and commented memographs of his style choices were popping up all over the internet.

The ascender is old and rickety and Arthur almost refuses to get on. Merlin tugs on his hand with a roll of his eyes and jerks down the rattling metal gate.

With the scanner a crackling mass of splintered screen and mangled wires, the door to Gwaine’s hovel of a flat slides open without prompting. Arthur enters first, despite Merlin’s withering look when he pushes him behind his back, stepping into the narrow space that passes as a hall. His right hand closes around the handle of his quantic sword, hidden in one of the cloak’s many inside pockets.

The metal is cold from the outside, but the weight of it reassuringly familiar beneath Arthur’s grip.

Merlin steps up beside him not a moment later, his eyes flickering about the empty room, his hand partly raised in defence.

A floorboard creaks, the noise almost drowned out by the steady thumping of the beat downstairs, and Arthur whirls around, Merlin a warm presence at his back.

Gwaine emerges from behind a partition. He looks casual, unconcerned, but Arthur doesn’t miss the alertness in his gaze or the way his hand hovers close to his belt, the clear outline of a phaser beneath his baggy shirt. But when Arthur tilts up his head and brushes off the hood, he visibly relaxes and grins broadly.

“Arthur!” he says, looking genuinely happy to see him.

Arthur smiles and extends his arm in the greeting of the lower people. Gwaine steps closer, clasps a hand around his forearm and promptly drags him into a hug, giving Arthur’s back a thump before releasing him again. 

Gwaine’s hair is longer now than the last time Arthur’s seen him, his shoulders broader. There’s dark stubble on his cheeks and he looks a little thinner, tired.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Gwaine asks, then gives him a once over, his brow furrowing a little. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

Arthur quirks his lips. “Not yet,” he says wryly. “That’s what I need you for. Heard you’re somewhat of an expert.”

Gwaine sobers a little at that, the look of guilt on his face making Arthur instantly regret his words.

“Listen, Arthur,” Gwaine says, uncharacteristically serious. “I never got to thank you properly. What you did for me-” 

“Was nothing,” Arthur cuts him off firmly. “You’re my friend, Gwaine. And anyway, anyone else in my position would’ve done the same.”

Gwaine shakes his head, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a lopsided smile. “They really wouldn’t. Not many as honourable as you, princess.”

Arthur scowls at the mention of Gwaine’s old nickname for him and feels a flush crawling up his neck. He fights it down.

“Don’t call me that.”

 Gwaine, of course, merely laughs in his face, before turning his attention to Merlin, who’d remained quiet until now.

“And who’s this?” Gwaine asks curiously.

Arthur steps aside. “Gwaine, this is Merlin,” he says. “Merlin, Gwaine.”

Merlin brushes back his hood and Gwaine’s eyes widen a little, so does his grin.

“I have to say,” Gwaine says as he and Merlin briefly clasp forearms in greeting. “You’re even prettier in person.”

Merlin quirks an embarrassed smile and even though Arthur knows it’s stupid, his blood still boils a little at the sight of Gwaine’s flirting, unused as he is to sharing Merlin with anyone. It’s not the first time Arthur’s felt possessive about Merlin - Arthur knows he has a tendency for it - but it’s the first time that it’s happened in this particular context.

“Gwaine,” he warns, presses it out between clenched teeth.

Gwaine laughs, flicking his head to get his stupidly shiny hair out of his face and looking like a model despite the scruffy clothing and the less-than-enticing setting. Arthur glares at him, barely keeping himself from stepping even closer to Merlin, aching to take his hand and show his intentions through some form of cave-man like claiming.

Merlin throws him a knowing look, lips twitching, and Arthur just knows that there’s a quip just waiting to burst out of him. But when he takes the smallest step to the side and presses their shoulders together, warm and close, there’s something both soft and heated in his gaze. Arthur’s breath catches a little and his tongue comes out to wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, princess,” Gwaine says, voice light, breaking the moment. “You can’t begrudge me a little curiosity after seeing you both in countless emagazines every other weeks. Not that I can blame them in this case, you do make a rather fetching couple.”

Arthur thinks of denying it somehow, but he’s so thoroughly sick of it. He knows he can trust Gwaine and that he won’t be judged. So instead of ignoring the remark or replying with something cool and deflecting, Arthur squares his shoulder and says, “Thank you.”

Merlin’s head snaps up and if Arthur had any doubt before, the look on his face immediately makes his admission worth it. If he could, Arthur thinks, he’d make Merlin look at him like this all the time.

As predicted, Gwaine doesn’t blink an eye, merely gives them a broad smile. “Why don’t we-” he waves at the sparse furnishings. “Just make yourselves at home. I’d offer you something, but the truth is, I don’t have anything except water. And cheap beer.”

Arthur dismisses the offer. “It’s fine.” And folds himself onto the tattered couch, Merlin settling down beside him. 

It’s a little cramped and there’s a spring digging into Arthur’s arse, but at the tentative touch of Merlin’s hand on his thigh, Arthur thinks a whole army of springs wouldn’t be able to make him anything less than comfortable. He covers Merlin’s hand with his own, gently pressing it into place.

“Alright.” Gwaine flicks his hair from his face. “Let me just get my tablet and then you can tell me what brought you all the way down here.”

*

“So let me get this straight,” Gwaine says, tone vaguely incredulous and looking moments away from laughing in Arthur’s face. “You want me to help you hack into Uther Pendragon’s personal files - who’s, let’s face it, is basically running all of Albion - in order for you to dig up intel about Pendragon HQ, which might possibly be linked to a whole set of state secretes. Did I get that about right?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, unhappy. Why is it that outside of his head, this whole thing sounds so much more foolish?

“Yes,” he admits grudgingly, but refuses to back down now that it’s out. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Arthur,” Gwaine says, going for reasonable but looking rather more as though he’s trying very hard not to to take the piss. “You’re the assistant CEO. He’s your _father_ , for fuck’s sake! What the hell makes you think that if you can’t do it, I can? I know what you can do, you’re brilliant! Programming is like breathing to you, so what the fuck? How am I supposed to help?”

Arthur presses the palms of his hands together, rocking forward as he leans closer and places his elbows on his knees.

“It’s true that I’m good at what I do,” he says intently. “But I’ve never dealt with anything like this before. There’s things you know, things you have access to, that I could never get my hands on up there. You’re the best, Gwaine, everyone says so. And I’ve seen you work. It’s the whole reason you got yourself in this mess in the first place.” Arthur pauses to take a breath. “Listen, I know this is a lot to ask, but I need to do this and I need you with me. I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way.”

Gwaine is silent, fingers rubbing against the roughness of his stubble as he thinks.

“You know I can’t refuse you, Arthur,” he says, finally. “I’m indebted to you as it is-”

Arthur huffs, irritated. “I _told you-_ ”

“But even if I wasn’t,” Gwaine cuts him off firmly. “I’d still help you. Of course I will, you insane bastard.”

Arthur’s breath rushes from his lungs in a relieved laugh, his lips stretching into an involuntary smile.

“That- Thank you,” he says. “Really.”

Gwaine waves him off. “Enough of that,” he says, then shifts, looking suddenly terribly sober. “But Arthur, this is dangerous. This could get us into prison for life, if nothing else. And you’ll need direct access to the main server to get this kind of information.”

Arthur nods. “I know,” he says, grim. 

Gwaine takes a deep breath. “Right,” he says, rubbing his hands together like an old professor about to begin a lesson. “Let’s lay out the facts, then.”

Dragging up the memographs off his tablet and into a hologram, Gwaine pulls up a generic blue-print of Pendragon HQ.

“Uther’s office is on the top floor,” Gwaine says, the strings of blue forming the room in question turning red as he gives them a tap. “I’m assuming that anyone who enters the building is logged into the system, is that right?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I know my father’s chip code, so it’ll probably be easiest to use that. But I’ll need something to give me access to the scanners, there’s no way I can just type it in like that. I’ll need to trick the system into believing it’s actually reading the chip, otherwise it won’t let me in.”

“You know,” Gwaine says conversationally and there’s a glint in his eye that makes Arthur feel almost hopeful. “I think I’ve got just the thing for you.”

Arthur, as well as Merlin - who’d been oddly quiet up to now - follow Gwaine with their eyes as he hops up from his seat and vanishes behind the partition once more. There’s some muttering, followed by some cursing and banging, before Gwaine re-emerges with a triumphant air and a brilliant grin. In his hand he holds a smallish contraption that looks mostly like a hybrid between a touchpad and a scanner - and Arthur realises, upon closer inspection, that that’s actually exactly what it is. From its top protrudes a three fingered, metal claw that makes the whole thing look even more bizarre.

Arthur eyes it doubtfully.

“What,” he says. “Is _that_?”

Gwaine, if possible, beams even wider.

“This, my dear grasshopper, is something I invented myself. And this beauty,” he adds, almost crooning, nodding at the claw. “Is a quantic magnet.”

Arthur gapes at him, his finger rising of its own volition, pointing at it like an idiot.

“That- no. No. Seriously?” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “How the hell…How long did it take you to make this?”

Gwaine shrugs. “I had a lot of time,” he says and there’s something else in his voice, something that Arthur doesn’t want to inspect but can’t help but think sounds like lonely days and nights, stretching endlessly with too many thoughts and too little to do and only a broken heart for company.

Arthur swallows, then gets up to take a closer look.

Merlin follows, hovering at Arthur’s shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of wariness. Arthur casts him a glance, but Merlin isn’t looking at him.

The device is, for a lack of a better word, brilliant. For all its choppiness and utter lack of design, the touchpad responds instantly and the display is crisp and clear. 

"So what does it do, exactly?" Merlin asks, eyeing it a little dubiously.

"It attaches itself to any device with a QuanticBattery and uses its energy to corrupt the software, letting you access the core programming." Gwaine rotates his hand at the wrist in a vague gesture. "Like a glitch, if you so want."

"Ah," Merlin says eloquently. 

He reaches out a tentative hand and its barely within reaching distance, when the claw suddenly shoots towards Merlin's fingers and attaches itself with a faint sound of finality. In Arthur’s hand, the device bleeps, a little off-key, and string upon string of familiar code starts appearing on the small screen.

"This is amazing," Arthur breathes, because it truly is. 

Gwaine grins at him.

“So we have a way into the building and the office,” Merlin says, attempting to shake off the claw. It doesn’t budge and he gives up with an annoyed little huff. Arthur has trouble biting back a laugh. “What’ll we do about the files? There’s probably a million encryptions and whatnot on them.”

Arthur deactivates the quantic magnet with a brush of his fingers and it releases Merlin’s hand. Merlin shakes it out and glares at the device. Behind him, Gwaine is stifling a snigger.

With that out of the way, however, the mood once again turns sober.

“From what I remember of Pendragon Enterprises, they have some form of ridiculous security system with constant changing coding,” Gwaine says, his face sour. “I’d really like to know what kind of brilliant idiot thought of that.”

Arthur makes a face. “Nimueh,” he says flatly. “She came up with it back when my father had just implemented the first QuanticBattery.”

“Lovely,” Gwaine grumbles. He rubs at his stubble again, looking thoughtful. “Alright, here’s the thing.” He fixes them both with a look. “I can make a few inquiries and get back to you. You can hold onto that, if you like.” He jerks his chin towards the quantic magnet still in Arthur’s hands. “Get familiar with it and Arthur.” Gwaine pauses and clasps Arthur’s shoulder. “Please think about this again, alright? Don’t make any rash decisions just because you think you have to. There’s no turning back after this, remember that.”

Arthur nods, even though inside he’s already long since made his decision. He isn’t a man to do things by half, he wouldn’t have come down here if he didn’t intend to go through with this.

“Take care,” Gwaine says. “I’ll be in touch.”

*

Their trip back is uneventful.

They retrace their steps from before, shedding their cloaks once they get higher up and, thankfully, find Arthur’s car still where they’d left it.

Merlin is strangely quiet on their way back, but Arthur doesn’t press him, far too invested in his own thoughts. All this sneaking around, it’s exhausting and Arthur doesn’t like it. Any attempt at conversation would probably end up making him snappish and the last thing he wants right now is a fight.

Once back in the safety of the flat, Arthur takes one look at Merlin shivering miserably next to him, before taking his hand and leading him to the bathroom with him. He draws them a bath, shrugging out of the common clothing and helping Merlin undress.

They settle in the tub together and, despite it being big enough for them both to sit on opposite ends, Merlin ends up with his back against Arthur’s chest and Arthur lets his eyes fall closed with a sigh. The water is hot, almost scaldingly so, but Arthur likes the way it feels against his skin, heat seeping through him and into his very bones.

Arthur trails lazy fingers over Merlin’s chest, across his collarbone, nuzzling against his temple as he feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Merlin catches one of Arthur’s hands and brings it to his mouth, kissing it before letting his tongue flick out to briefly trace one of the lines on his palm. Arthur’s breath catches in his throat, his own lips opening against Merlin’s shoulder and giving it a gentle nip.

“So, Gwaine?” Merlin asks quietly against Arthur’s hand, as if they’d just abandoned a conversation and he’s prompting Arthur back into it.

Arthur lets the air from his lungs, tilting back his head to rest against the wall of the round tub. 

“I met him at uni - he was studying at the same faculty as me and Lance. He’s from a wealthy family from up here, but he fell out with them ages ago. My father-” Arthur pauses, contemplating how best to explain the ridiculous workings of upper people. “He likes recruiting talents from a young age and has always kept an eye out for the best students in the subjects valuable to the company. He sponsored both Lance and Gwaine, but Gwaine got himself into trouble and when my father found out he cut him off and told the police where to find him.” Arthur trails off, frowning unhappily at the memory, of finding out what had happened, his anger at Gwaine for being an idiot, but even more so at his father, who’d just cast a good friend aside. Arthur remembers the mad rush to Gwaine’s flat, of his devastated expression when he had to leave without goodbye to any of their friends. Closing his eyes at the the painful memory, Arthur turns his head and buries his nose in Merlin’s thick hair, voice slightly muffled as he goes on, “I got to him before they did, gave him some money. It gave him a head start.”

Merlin squeezes his hand and covers Arthur’s arm around his waist with his own, hugging it close. “It was a good thing you did.”

Arthur shakes his head, hair tickling his nose. “I didn’t do anything. He still lost his chip, he still-” He swallows. “Him and Percy, they had this thing. They were idiots about it, but so stupidly in love. They’d just started to get it together. I just wish there was something more I could’ve done.”

Merlin shifts, gently moving Arthur’s arm so that he can turn around and slide into Arthur’s lap, wrapping his arms around him.

“You did all you could, Arthur,” he says gently, breath warm against Arthur’s wet skin. “You can’t always save everyone, you know.”

Arthur does know, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t going to do his damned best to try.

*

“So here’s what we’ll do,” Gwaine says, rotating the holographic blueprint. They had opted for the floor instead of the tiny, lumpy sofa, sitting in a loose circle around Gwaine’s tablet. 

Admittedly, the various stains are rather questionable, but at least there are no springs digging into his arse. 

“I’m going to get us an unregistered car and I’ll pick you up form somewhere close to your penthouse. Merlin and I will drop you off at HQ and then we’ll park here-” Gwaine indicated a secluded spot between two crossing footpaths a few floors under Pendragon HQ’s main entrance. “If everything goes smoothly, we’ll come up to get you once you’re out and get out of there.” 

Gwaine rotates the holograph once more and highlights the emergency ascender, which runs on the outside along the back of the building, providing exits at various footpaths.

“If shit goes pear-shaped,” he goes on and Arthur quickly glances at Merlin, finding his face pinched in worry. “You’ll get your arse to the emergency ascender and call us from there so we can work out an alternative depending on the scale of trouble. Don’t use it - or any backdoors for that matter - if you can avoid it. The system immediately highlights any non-standard use and it’s best if that doesn’t happen.”

“I don’t like this,” Merlin says with an unhappy frown. “I still think it’d be better if I go in as well.”

“No,” Arthur says immediately, avoiding a stain as he shifts into a more comfortable position. “I’ll be faster on my own.”

Merlin folds his arms, looking as though he’s ready to fight Arthur on this _again_ , even though they’ve already gone at least two rounds.

“But if you run into trouble-” Merlin insists, brows furrowed and lips set in a stubborn line.

“Arthur’s right,” Gwaine cuts in, clearly trying to keep his tone mild even as Merlin’s glare shifts to him instead. “It’s hard enough for one person to fly under the radar. Two’s practically begging to be discovered.”

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t understand, because he does, he really, _really_ does. He can freely admit - at least to himself - that if their positions were reversed, Arthur would move heaven and earth to get Merlin to take him along. But as it stands, this is a perfect opportunity to keep Merlin safely out of it. Arthur’s already going insane with worry over Merlin, what with the blackouts and the shivering, there really is no need to add to that.

He takes Merlin’s hand. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” 

Merlin doesn’t look any happier than before, but he doesn’t shake off Arthur’s touch either. 

“The second you need me, you call,” Merlin demands, fixing Arthur with a grim look. “Promise me.”

Arthur brings Merlin’s long fingers to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I promise.”

“Well, good thing that’s settled, then,” Gwaine says. “Oh and Arthur, I’d take off the ring of yours if I were you.” He nods at Arthur’s right hand. “It’s the first thing they’d zero in on the security footage.”

*

It’s far from the first time that Arthur enters HQ in the middle of the night. When he’d first started working there full-time, he often hadn’t finished until late; other times the prospect of lying on his couch with the holo-projector droning on until his eyes finally feel heavy enough to close had just been too much to bear. And then there’d been those times when he didn’t merely have trouble falling asleep, but when he’d felt restless and too big for his skin. When he’d felt like he had to get out and _do something_ or risk losing his mind work had always been the safest option and something that there’d always been enough of to occupy him.

But tonight is different.

Tonight he’s not wearing the first clothes he’d gotten his hands on and his mind isn’t a jumble of bizarre, sleep-deprived thoughts, his hands not twitching with pent-up energy. No, tonight Arthur is forcefully calm, even while his heart is thumping a wild rhythm against his ribcage, and his clothes are dark, carefully picked, even though they’re mostly hidden by the cloak around his shoulders. His hood is up, hiding his hair and face, making it impossible to recognise him on the security footage later on.

Arthur deftly places the quantic magnet against the scanner, the metal claw immediately shooting forward to attach itself. Fingers flying over the small screen, Arthur quickly types in his father’s access code and prays that Gwaine’s device will be enough to fool the system.

For a moment, nothing happens and Arthur’s stomach drops. But then both screens flash and the device displays a few rapid lines of code. When they stop coming, the scanner bleeps and flashes green, _Uther Pendragon, ID UP17001869, Pendragon Enterprises - CEO_.

Arthur lets out a breath, before squaring his shoulders and stepping through the door.

The entrance hall is thankfully deserted, no late-night cleaning androids in sight. In the centre, the glass dragon looms almost forebodingly in the dark; transparent scales glinting and its eyes seeming almost alive, reflecting the city lights form outside. It makes it look as though it’s looking right at him. He looks away quickly.

Sticking to the shadows, Arthur makes it to the ascenders without incident and, using the quantic magnet once more, to the top floor.

He sneaks past his own office and feels terribly strange about it - as though he doesn’t belong there at all. Or at least, not anymore.

It’s when he’s almost at the end of the corridor that the silence is suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Heart hammering and his palms slick with sweat, Arthur launches himself around the round corner and flattens himself against the wall. _Please go to the ascender_ , Arthur thinks frantically. _Don’t come over here._

The footsteps slow, then stop. Arthur holds his breath.

Another step. Then another.

It must be one of the cleaning androids doubling as security guards, one of the latest TET-RYS models. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, his lungs aching with the lack of oxygen, but he doesn’t dare let up.

And then finally, _finally_ there’s the sound of shuffling and the unmistakable sound of the ascender arriving. After its door has closed, everything is silent again.

Arthur waits for another moment, then slowly, carefully risks a glance around the corner. The corridor is once more deserted.

The relief is strong enough to make his knees feel a little weak and Arthur forcefully pulls himself together, before continuing on his way, this time picking up his pace. He’s already lost too much time. The hack Gwaine had given him will only allow him access within a sixty minute time frame, after that, the alarm would be set off and Arthur would be fucked. Truly and royally. There’s no way he could get out of HQ with everyone on alert. He’d just have to be quick and everything would be fine.

Slipping into his father’s office, he doesn’t waste any time. He darts forward, quickly powers up his father’s holo-desk and connects the quantic magnet. He glances around, as though expecting someone to jump out of the shadows, a niggling voice in the back of his head insisting that this all seems far too easy, wayward cleaning android notwithstanding.

Quickly tapping in the first round of codes, Arthur bypasses the password protection, then adds another hack, and another. The holo-desk flares, bright and sudden and Arthur jumps in surprise, each and every one of his muscles tensing, ready for flight. But the connection remains steady and the device has stopped spewing code, informing Arthur that the files are ready for access.

Swinging himself into his father’s chair, Arthur quickly flicks through the virtual database, one-handed, while fumbling open the access panel on the side with the other. He shoves away wires, his fingertips running along the back panel until they finally find the pin-port. He yanks off the chain around his neck and shoves the pin into the port, waiting until he sees it flashing before turning his attention back to the holo-desk.

Arthur’s chest is tight with nerves, his breathing coming faster with each shuddering breath. The sweat is no longer just on his palms, but has built on his brow and all the way around his hairline, running down from his temples and dripping messily against his collar. The coarse material of the hood feels damp and uncomfortable, but Arthur only drags it deeper into his face.

Eyes flickering to the time in the corner of the screen, Arthur mutters a curse and quickly breezes through creating a partition and shoving the entirety of his father’s files there, before copying them to the pin. Like this, once he’s deleted the partition, there will be no way to see which files had been copied in the first place.

With a sinking heart, Arthur watches the timer indicating the completion of the process climbing and climbing, reaching thirty minutes, then an hour. There’s no way he’ll be able to get all the files, he’s already cutting it close as it is.

Thinking quickly, Arthur starts typing frantically, excluding files from the selection. He concentrates on filtering out the videos and memographs and sticks to getting the reports instead. The timer jumps back to thirty minutes. Then twenty. 

Arthur tries to keep breathing.

Just as some of Arthur’s tense muscles have relaxed the tiniest bit and he’s allowed himself to be just a little bit optimistic, he hears the unmistakable sound of voices underlined by the soft rhythm of footsteps - and they’re heading his way. 

Heart in his throat, Arthur quickly switches off the holo-desk’s screen, shoves the quantic magnet under his cloak without detaching it from the computer, and flings himself beneath the table. The single, sloping foot is barely enough to conceal him and Arthur just hopes that whoever it is won’t put all the lights on or look to closely. He just about manages to snap the desk’s maintenance panel back into place, the pin still inside, when the scanner outside bleeps and the door slides opens.

There’s only three people other than Uther whose chip allows them access to his father’s office, one of them is Arthur, the other Gaius and the third-

“Yes, I can see how the place is simply swarming with intruders,” Nimueh’s voice slices through the silence, edged with the familiar derision. “If you were so desperate to waste my time, I’d have appreciated if you’d done it sometime other than the middle of the night.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” It’s the voice of an android, most likely the one from before, even and painfully polite. “But I was instructed to pay particularly close attention after the break-in last month. Mr Pendragon said-”

“Don’t be tedious,” Nimueh snaps. “I said it’s fine, so it’s fine.”

Footsteps ring out and Arthur tries to make himself as small as physically possible. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, so loudly that he’s almost afraid Nimueh and the android are going to hear it. The android’s flat, cleaning uniform standard shoes come into view, walking past just inches away from Arthur’s crouched form.

“Yes, ma’am,” the android says obediently and Arthur can practically see the bob of its head before its inner eye. “With your permission I will tap into the system and draw up a list of people who have entered the building tonight.”

Nimueh’s golden heeled stilettos appear beside Arthur and he suddenly realises with a terrified lurch that one corner of his cloak is just about peeping out from beneath the desk, ready for either of the two to trip over at any given moment. All it takes is one glance at the floor… 

 _That’s it_ , Arthur thinks, stomach twisting nauseatingly. _Game over._

“You will do no such thing,” Nimueh says sharply. One of her golden heels glints ominously as she shifts her weight. Arthur watches it coming closer and closer, frozen with terror. It brushes the cloak and Arthur almost wants to press his eyes shut.

But then the unthinkable happens. Instead of alerting the android to his presence, the tip of Nimueh’s shoe quickly sweeps the corner of the cloak beneath the desk in one smooth move, undoubtedly executed in the most casual way possible.

Arthur stares at it, aghast.

“Now, I believe we’re done here,” Nimueh says.

“But ma’am-”

“Did you not understand me?” Nimueh says icily, her voice like a whip. “I said we’re done here. Except if you want to be the one to explain to Mr Pendragon why you where lurking around his office in the middle of the night.”

 _C’mon_ , Arthur thinks desperately, the timer in his mind reduced to a mere few seconds. _Come the fuck on._

The door slides shut with a soft whooshing sound and Arthur’s hands shoot out, yanking off the panel even while he’s trying to scramble out from underneath the desk and disconnect the quantic magnet. He jerks out the pin, almost yanking a few of the wires out alongside it, and all but punches the hacking device’s little screen to abort the process-

But he’s too late.

With a blood curdling whine, the alarm kicks off at a furious pace and Arthur barely contains his roar of frustration.

Lights are flickering on around him, the security system waking the building to life, and Arthur’s hands shake so hard he barely manages to return the chain with the pin to his neck. Arthur doesn’t bother replacing the panel or switching off the holo-desk, by now everyone must already be aware of the location of the security breach. He does delete the partition, however, his last bit of desperate hope to get himself out of his without discovery.

The security lock-down is already in place, Arthur knows, and he furiously sends his thanks to Gwaine and his genius brain for developing the beauty that is the quantic magnet as it once more lets him pass. He bolts out of the office and straight towards the emergency ascender, the corridors behind him already filling with androids.

He dashes into the ascender and punches the pad to go down, back on level with the entrance floor. Whipping out his communicator, Arthur glances around widely, taking in the city around him. He can already hear sirens in the distance and knows that he has mere minutes before the jellyfish will arrive.

“Arthur?” Merlin says immediately after picking up. “Are you alright?”

Arthur presses a hand against the transparent aluminium wall of the ascender, the metal cool and just a little grounding beneath his slick palm.

“I’m fine,” he says, breathless.

“What happened?” Merlin asks and Arthur thinks he can hear Gwaine’s voice in the background

“I fucked up,” Arthur says and hopes it doesn’t sound quite as desperate as he feels. “We need a plan B.”

“Okay, hang on,” Merlin says, the words fast and worried, but not without focus. Arthur can hear him addressing Gwaine. “We need to get him out of there.”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line and Arthur quickly fumbles to detach his communicator’s tiny earpiece, shoving it into his ear and the comm into one of his many pockets. The ascender slides to a halt, Merlin and Gwaine still rustling and debating.

“Sometime today would be good,” Arthur snaps as he detaches the quantic magnet and hurls himself from the ascender. 

He’s finds himself on a narrow footpath along the outside of the building. Inside, the entrance hall is swarming with androids and a few human employees.

“Alright, Arthur,” Gwaine’s voice suddenly cuts in. “You need to get Below as fast as possible. I’ll get rid of the car and Merlin will meet you just off the Old Market square. You’ll have to shake off the jellyfish before we do anything else - you’ve got your sword with you, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

Having spotted the cloaked figure outside, androids have started piling onto the footpath and rushing in his direction. Arthur sprints the other way.

The sirens are louder now and Arthur is sure he glimpses the little red sensors of some jellyfish staring at him like evil little eyes. He’s almost at the intersection to the next footpath, when he’s suddenly cut off. 

It’s Leon, a phaser glinting dangerously in his hand.

“Hold it right there,” Leon says grimly. “I don’t want to shoot you, but one more step and I won’t have a choice.”

Arthur can hear Merlin sucking in a sharp breath and Arthur wishes he could say something random and comforting, but his breath is heaving and he can practically feel the others closing in on him. He feels trapped, helpless.

There’s really only one thing he can do. He tilts his head and he knows Leon caught sight of his face by the way he all but jumps back in surprise. Thankfully, he knows better than to say Arthur’s name. He glances at Arthur, then past him at the androids coming ever closer. When his eyes come back to rest on Arthur once more, he inclines his head in an almost imperceptible nod.

Arthur doesn’t waste any more time and prays that he’s interpreted it right.

He launches himself at Leon, who purposefully lets himself fall back, staggering beneath Arthur’s mock-assault.

“Thank you,” Arthur mutters, quick and quiet, before leaping past Leon and continuing down the footpath.

Leon doesn’t restrain him, letting Arthur’s cloak slip through his fingers, and when he fires after him, every shot goes wide and misses him.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, voice tight with worry.

“I’m fine,” Arthur gasps, lungs on fire in his chest. “I’ll try and shake them.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Merlin says. “Be careful.”

“You, too,” Arthur says, then disconnects.

*

The contrast is almost enough to leave Arthur reeling. Just a little while ago, there had been only silence and carefully controlled breathing - the thumping sound of Arthur’s heart alone deafening and enough to make him fear discovery.

It’s so different now, all quick movements and pounding footsteps, the noise of the street mingling with the high pitched whirring noise of the jellyfish whizzing in his wake. The sound sets Arthur’s teeth on edge.

Somewhere in the distance, the sirens are still blaring, but the people around him hardly blink an eye. The jellyfish swoop in-between them and Arthur can hear some of them cursing, can see them duck out of their path whenever he dares to take his eyes away from the road long enough to throw frantic glances over his shoulders. But still, it seems to be annoyance rather than shock that has people baring their teeth at the jellyfish - the occurrence far too frequent down here to earn more than a general air of resentment.

Arthur bounds around the next corner, his cloak billowing behind him before being swallowed by darkness alongside the rest of him. But the night isn’t a cover, not this time, for the jellyfish don’t need eyes to see and Arthur is barely halfway through the narrow path when he can hear them again, tinny and foreboding. 

Sweat is pouring from Arthur’s hairline now, sharp and salty in his eyes, and his palms are slippery with it. His shirt is clinging uncomfortably to his spine and his lungs are screaming for breath, aching with the force of his panting. A stabbing pain has started in his left side, but Arthur tries to ignore it, pushes relentlessly onwards.

 _Just a little further_ , he thinks frantically. _Just one more street, then I’m there._

The whirring sound has grown louder and Arthur risks a backwards glance, only to come face to face with the cluster of evil, tiny red pins of light that are the jellyfishes’ sensors.

No, Arthur thinks desperately, urging his legs to go faster, but they don’t comply, his muscles already alight with the strain. He can make it, he’s so, so close-

But one of the jellyfish’s wiry tentacles is already reaching for him, Arthur can see it in the periphery of his vision, its tip crackling blue. One touch, just one, brief touch and that would be it, he’d be instantly stunned. He’d fall where he stands and soon the police would come to take him away and his father-

Arthur swallows, hard, and viciously pushes the thought aside. Now’s not the time for this.

Blue flashes again in the corner of his eye and there is nothing, nothing at all that Arthur can do, too exhausted by the chase and the alley far too narrow for any sort of bold manoeuvres. So he braces himself for the shock, even as he keeps going, on and on. He’s not giving up.

Ahead of him, the shadows suddenly shift. A pale hand shoots forward, out of the darkness and there’s the faintest flash of gold. Arthur is still moving, far too fast, the momentum of his lung-bursting run still carrying him forward even as he’s trying to slow down. But his boots skid in the damp, muddy ground and there’s no way he can stop in time.

Behind him there’s the ugly sound of metal hitting stone just as Arthur crashes forward in a billow of cloaks, colliding hard.

Merlin catches him even as the force sends him stumbling back. They crash into the opposite wall, Merlin against stone and Arthur against his chest in a way that knocks the breath from his lungs. But Merlin doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t say anything at all for a moment, simply yanks Arthur even closer, erasing the already non-existing space between them.

Arthur sags against him, his breath still shuddering in and out of his lungs at a desperate pace. He turns his head, allowing himself this for just a moment as he presses his nose to Merlin’s soft skin, to the pulse-point-without-a-pulse. Merlin squeezes him tightly, his breath a burst of warm air against Arthur’s neck, his hands pressed tightly to Arthur’s heaving back.

Even though he wants nothing more than to stay right here, wants to finally remember what it feels like to breathe without it feeling as though he’s inhaling needles and going so far as to not care about sinking down into the dirt, if only to give his legs a break - but he knows they can’t, that even this short respite is far beyond what they can afford.

With one last breath, Arthur detangles himself. Merlin lets him go, but his hands linger, his touch edged with a certain franticness; running across Arthur’s shoulders, his chest.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks, voice tight and eyes bright even in the darkness.

Arthur catches his hands, runs soothing thumbs across his wrists. 

“Fine,” he says, his voice a little rough and his breathing still uneven. “I’m fine.” 

He glances back at the jellyfish, buried beneath mud and grey plaster, their sensors dead and their tentacles sprawled about them in grotesque angles. Merlin’s face is stony, his jaw tight and he looks like he’d very much enjoy raining some more destruction on whoever is unfortunate enough to cross their path.

“Gwaine?” Arthur asks.

“Lying low,” Merlin says. “But he’s pretty sure no one managed to trace back anything to either of you.”

“Good,” Arthur says, turning his back on the fallen jellyfish and sweeping his eyes across the alley. “We have to keep moving.

Merlin nods, his fingers briefly brushing Arthur’s as he follows him deeper into the shadows. Arthur gives them a another squeeze, then takes a painful breath and takes off once more, thinking that he’s done enough running tonight to last him a lifetime.

The sound of sirens seems to be filling the air around them, far too close for comfort, and Arthur glances around wildly - a constant, frantic motion reserved for the truly hunted, expecting jellyfish to burst out at every turn. The chain around his neck almost feels as though its burning his skin, the pin pressing uncomfortably into his flesh.

Merlin follows, sometimes at Arthur’s side, sometimes slightly behind him. His steps and breathing remain steady, eerily unchanged despite the exertion and Arthur wishes, for the first time, that his lungs were artificial, the process of breathing a mere line of code in his genetic make-up, holding none of the significance it does for humans. Even so, Merlin’s presence is, if not reassuring, then very much wanted, making Arthur believe that they could make it. Together.

He almost thinks that they’ve managed to lose their tail.

They haven’t.

A fact which becomes painfully clear when, after bursting from the mouth of an alley and straight into the next, one of the streetlights glints off the metallic surface of three ugly jellyfish heads. Arthur shudders. He’s always hated their design. It reminds him somehow of spiders, or dark holes filled with water and no way of escape until there’s nothing left but drowning, surrounded by red pin-pricks. Fuck, the lack of oxygen really must be making him loopy.

The jellyfish’s sensors flare as they catch them on their readings, and Arthur curses, vicious and breathless, as they make chase with their creepy, tinny-sounding whirring noises. Arthur clenches his jaw, feeling the small hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end.

“We can’t outrun them,” Merlin says, his eyes narrowed as they shoot a glance backwards. “We need to take them out.”

Arthur grits his teeth, his legs now as much on fire as his lungs. 

“I know,” he gasps, barely audible between harsh panting. Then fumbles to get to his belt, his fingers brushing the cool handle of his quantic sword, then closing around it with a vice-like grip.

They take down the three jellyfish pursuing them, then four more, then another three, then another five. Their fights are interspersed with bursts of desperate sprinting, cloaks billowing behind them and their gazes seeking each other frantically to check on each other.

Arthur can see the strain on Merlin’s face and he knows that were he able to, his brow would be slick with sweat. There is a flicker of gold, weak and brief, as Merlin raises his hand and reels in the last three jellyfish, snatching them out of the air in mid-flight.

Merlin clenches his jaw, his fingers trembling, the jellyfish wriggling violently, before freezing in place.

“Now,” he says, forcing the word from between chattering teeth.

Arthur twirls his sword, loosening the tight muscles in his wrist, then slashes first at their sensors, then their tentacles. Merlin’s hand drops and so do the jellyfish, their sensors slowly blinking out.

They don’t linger, there’s no time for resting.

*

It has to happen eventually and, if Arthur’s honest, he’s surprised it hasn’t sooner. Exhaustion is weighing heavily on him and it takes little more than one miscalculated step, one second of inattentiveness, and Arthur loses his footing. 

He lands hard, his sword flying out of his hand and skating across the ground. The blade retracts at the loss of Arthur’s touch and the handle, now coated in filth, all but disappears in the shadows.

“Arthur!” he hears Merlin shout.

He sounds frightened and Arthur wants to tell him he’s okay, unhurt, but he doesn’t get the chance, because not a moment later the jellyfish he’s been trying to hack to pieces not a moment ago, is suddenly right there; all red sensors and flailing tentacles.

The one with the stunner attached at its tip shoots out, towards Arthur, and he scrambles back on the filthy ground, covering his cloak and pants in a layer of mud. It clings to his hands. The jellyfish chases after him, whirring furiously, one of its tentacles barely missing Arthur’s eye. His arm jerks up, instinctively seeking to protect his face, which earns him a cut along his cheek, quick and vicious. 

Cursing, Arthur tries to back away further, but manages barely an inch or two before he hits the wall behind him. In his peripheral vision, he can see the blue light of the stunner, bright and far too close for comfort. Arthur thinks about throwing himself to the side or flattening himself to the muddy ground, but he knows he’s too late. Trapped as he is, there is no escaping it now.

The jellyfish makes one of its strange, hair-raising tinny sounds and Arthur almost thinks it sounds triumphant, before shooting forward, straight at Arthur’s head. It’s the last thing he sees before his vision explodes into gold.

It’s so sudden, so bright, that Arthur barely manages to see past it. What he does see, is the jellyfish in front of him flying apart into each and every one of its parts, the metal wrenching apart and flying off, flung away into different directions by an invisible hand. The proximity should’ve been dangerous, if it weren’t for the golden shield that had enveloped Arthur, safe and warm and indestructible.

When it’s over, when not only the jellyfish in front of him, but also the other five they’d been fending off have been reduced to nothing, Arthur finally dares to move again. The shield flickers, then collapses, plunging the alley into almost complete darkness. Arthur realises that the streetlights, few as they’d been, had blinked out of existence sometime during the explosion.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks as he picks himself up off the ground. 

Merlin doesn’t respond and Arthur squints into the darkness, trying to make out a shadow, some movement, anything. It’s then that one of the streetlights comes back to life, trembling and unsteady, but enough to illuminate at least a small space in front of him.

He finds Merlin standing not a few paces to his left. He’s entirely still, unresponsive, and Arthur sucks in a sharp breath as he strides over to him, cold fear piercing his chest. He finds Merlin’s arm, fingers pressing into the soft groove of his elbow in five, frantic points of contact.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur says, sharp and frightened.

Merlin’s head turns, but its slow, too slow, and when his eyes finally meet Arthur’s, they’re devoid of life. His mouth stretches into a smile, bright and fake.

“No,” Arthur mutters, dread pooling in his stomach. “No, no, no. Not now.”

Merlin’s brow furrows and it looks almost natural, if it weren’t for the fact that Arthur had programmed the gesture himself and can predict the exact angle of the eyebrows, knows that if it really were _Merlin_ then the frown would sit differently, the line between his eyes less prominent.

“Is there something wrong?” Merlin asks, sickeningly pleasant.

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose hard enough to hurt.

Sirens are still blaring and considering the explosion that had just wiped out the last round of jellyfish, he knows it isn’t over, not by a long shot. But first of all, he needs to get Merlin out of here.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur steels himself. He releases Merlin’s arm, then sets out to find his lost sword, finally finding it halfway buried beneath a stray bit of wall. He gives it a perfunctory wipe with a corner of his cloak, before strapping it back to his belt.

“Follow me,” Arthur orders Merlin, who hasn’t moved. “Stay close, keep your face hidden and don’t speak.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur starts.

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding out a hand for emphasis as if he could take the word and crumple it, cast it away. “Don’t call me _sir_. It’s Arthur. Remember?”

It’s clear that Merlin doesn’t, even as he answers. “Yes, Arthur.”

He should be used to this by now, but he really, really isn’t.

They set off at a punishing pace, Arthur leading the way and Merlin following in his wake as instructed. There’s no sign of any more jellyfish, but Arthur doesn’t let himself relax. After four more alleys and the constant, nerve-wrecking sound of the sirens in the background, Arthur finally stops them, dragging Merlin into an alcove where the streetlights don’t reach.

It’s dark and dirty and blissfully hidden.

He cups Merlin’s face between his palms, letting his steady warmth seep into Arthur’s chilled fingers.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, soft and urgent. “I need you to snap out of it. I need you to remember who your are.”

Merlin blinks.

“I’m MRC874092B,” he says, then smiles his fake smile once more, completely missing Arthur’s anxiety. “Do you want to give me a name? I can be whoever you want me to be. I’m entirely at your disposal for-”

“Stop,” Arthur interrupts hoarsely. “Stop talking.” He leans their foreheads together. Merlin holds perfectly still.

Arthur keeps on forcing breath into his lungs and tries not to panic, keeps running through their limited amount of options over and over. There is only one thing he can do for Merlin right now, even though it’s the very last thing in the world that he _wants_ to do.

They need to split up.

Merlin isn’t human, so the jellyfish won’t touch him, barely even register him at all. It’s Arthur they’re after and he can’t risk dragging Merlin along when he doesn’t remember anything. He’s defenceless like this, without magic and without the ability to make any major decisions himself.

Right now, Arthur can barely look after himself, so how is he supposed to keep Merlin safe? If he truly wants to protect him, he’ll give him a series of clear instructions and collect him once the threat has passed.

Sucking in a breath that isn’t quite steady, Arthur steels himself.

“There’s something I have to go and do. After I’ve left, I want you to go down four more streets and then find the darkest and most secluded corner you can find. Wait for me there. Don’t move until I find you and _stay hidden_. Don’t answer anyone except if you’re absolutely certain it’s me. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Repeat it,” Arthur demands. “What will you do?”

He can almost see the data scrolling through Merlin’s eyes.

“After you’ve left, I’ll go down four streets and hide in the most secluded spot until you find me. I won’t move or react to anyone but you,” Merlin repeats dutifully.

“Good.” Arthur swallows. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

Arthur leans in, against his better judgement, and catches Merlin’s mouth in a hard kiss. Merlin’s lips move beneath his, responding with calculated movements - mechanic and impersonal. 

Arthur draws away quickly, feeling faintly ill, the tiny sliver of hope that had so insistently been niggling at him vanishing in a rush of bitter amusement. This isn’t a fairytale, Arthur thinks darkly and full of scorn. Not something to be cured by true love’s kiss. Arthur isn’t a prince and Merlin is certainly no princess.

He lets his thumb draw one last caress along Merlin’s cheekbone. “Wait for me.”

“Yes, Arthur,” Merlin says again, obediently.

Arthur lets his hands fall away. There are words burning on his tongue, stupid and useless in their sentimentality and Arthur presses his lips together, clenches his jaw and locks them inside.

He only lets himself hesitate another moment, taking one last look at Merlin’s blank face, before turning away.

*

Arthur knows he’s made the right decision, when barely two streets down, he’s once again inhaling needles and running from bright stunner lights. This is getting very old, very quickly.

He manages to briefly obtain the upper hand when he cuts through an abandoned basement, only to find himself stumbling out on the other end trapped in what once must have been a courtyard. He wastes precious breath cursing viciously, looking around wildly for a route of escape, but there’s nothing.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, harsh and desperate, roughly wiping the sweat off his brow.

He’s ready to give up and draw his sword, knowing that there’s no other way but to try and fight his way out and hope for the best, when a hand shoots out of nowhere. It clamps around his arm like a vice, yanking him through a previously unseen door behind him, hidden beneath vines upon vines of a strange plant with leaves so dark they’re almost black.

Arthur’s so surprised that he loses his footing, stumbling backwards gracelessly and with flailing arms. 

The stranger slams the door and plunges them into darkness. A moment later a dim flashlight blinks to life and Arthur receives a none too gentle shove.

“Move,” the stranger snaps.

Arthur, already tense and with his fingers tingling to whip out his sword, plants his feet into to ground.

“Who the hell are you?”

He tries to get a glimpse of the other’s face, but the hood of his - Arthur’s pretty sure it’s a man - cloak hides it too well.

“You’re welcome to stay here and waste time until the jellyfish find you, but if you want to get rid of them I suggest you do as I tell you.”

There’s something about the stranger’s voice, something oddly familiar, but Arthur is too rattled and the tone of conversation too low for him to pinpoint it.

Brushing past him, the other man leads the way, lighting their path through another basement. Arthur expects him to turn on him any minute, waits for it with his fingers clenched around the handle of his sword and every bit of attention trained on the stranger’s back. But the man never turns, not even once, not even to check if Arthur’s following.

Then again, it’s not like Arthur has a choice in this. He’ll take a stranger over the hair-raising presence of the jellyfish any day.

Instead of leading Arthur outside, the stranger takes a turn, down a narrow hall. With every step, Arthur’s muscles wind tighter and his fingers have started aching with the force of his grip on the sword handle. Finally, the man halts by a door that looks even worse than Gwaine’s; the scanner broken and the door, when it slides open, doing so jerkily and with great delay.

“In here,” the man says.

Arthur doesn’t move. “Who are you?”

The man gives an exasperated huff, before suddenly turning around and yanking off his hood. Arthur is sprung for action, the sword handle now properly in his hand and he’s ready to let the blade snap out, when his brain finally catches on with what’s in front of him.

“For the love of the gods, Arthur,” his uncle snaps. “Get in there.”

Arthur’s jaw feels slack, his eyes wide with shock.

“Agravaine?” he gasps. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to save your useless hide,” Agravaine bites out. “Now will you _please_ do as I say?”

Arthur does, but not without giving his uncle a hot glare.

There’s never been any love lost between him and Agravaine. Their relationship has always consisted of a very careful and sometimes quite elaborate dance, made even more unpleasant by the looming presence of Arthur’s father. Despite his front of perfect politeness and subservience to Arthur’s father, Arthur's always known that Agravaine secretly detests him and the slyness had been enough to make Arthur’s hackles rise.

So when Arthur strides past Agravaine and into the room, he can think of a very long list of people he’d rather be trapped with than his uncle. That doesn’t mean, of course, that Arthur isn’t curious what Agravaine is doing all the way down here dressed like this. After his father had sacked him, Agravaine had simply been gone - one day he’d been there with Arthur in the office and then he hadn’t. When Arthur had asked after him, his father had told him that Agravaine had gone abroad for a while and Arthur, torn between relief and the suffocating load of new responsibilities, hadn’t thought to ask further.

Thinking back on it, however, it’s just another thing on a long list that shows Arthur how stupidly naive he’d been.

Turning to face his uncle, Arthur carefully takes in his worn cloak and muddy boots. He looks older than he did when Arthur last saw him, quite a bit older than he should, really. And definitely thinner.

“What happened to you?” Arthur asks, taking half a step closer as he lets his eyes flicker over his uncle’s face. “Why are you here?”

Agravaine gives him one of his thin and very fake smiles. Arthur immediately feels like punching it off his face.

“How nice of you to care, my dear nephew,” Agravaine says, silky smooth and dripping with disdain. “It only took you about three years.”

Arthur scowls and feels the heat of anger crawling up his neck.

“Father told me you went abroad.” And he has to admit now how weak it sounds as an argument.

Agravaine’s smile turns this much sharper and there is a mocking tilt to his head when he takes a few steps further into the room and around Arthur’s stiff form.

“And you believed him, of course you would.” He pauses pointedly before going on, “He is your father, after all.”

Arthur hopes his muscles aren’t trembling as hard as he thinks they are.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” he snaps, temper on an even shorter line after everything that’s already happened tonight.

“Nothing,” Agravaine says pleasantly and Arthur only scowls harder. “Only that I’m relieved to see that you’ve finally started thinking with your own head. It’s a relief, really. I never expected you to master up enough brainpower to think for yourself and let go of your father’s coat tails. It’s a shock, really, to actually see you doing something for yourself for once. I must say I didn’t think you had it in you, Arthur.”

“Stop playing games. I’m not in the mood for a verbal sparring session,” Arthur snaps. “We both know you can’t stand me, and let me assure you the feeling’s entirely mutual. So cut out the bullshit and tell me what you want.”

Agravaine raises his eyebrows. “I just saved you from discovery and an extended stay in prison,” he says. “I do think a little gratitude isn’t too much to ask for, is it?”

Arthur clenches his jaw. “I hardly think gratitude is the reason why you just risked your neck. How did you even know where I was?”

His uncle waves an imperious hand. “Oh, I have my ways. But enough of that.” He gives Arthur an intent look. “Tell me, how is your sister?”

If Arthur had wanted to punch him before, then he wants it twice as badly now. “Fine.” The words barely makes it out between his teeth. “And still none of your concern.”

Agravaine puts a hand to his heart, mocking, but the glint in his eye is serious enough. “Arthur, you wound me. She’s family.”

“Not to you, she isn’t.” Arthur raises his chin. “Now, for the last time. What. Do. You. Want?”

Agravaine takes his time answering, taking a few calculated steps that lead him just this much closer to Arthur, a veiled threat in the way he carefully circles him. “I must say your manners haven’t improved one bit. If your father could hear you now, he’d be very disappointed.”

Arthur moves with him, not about to present his uncle with his unprotected back. The hand on his sword tightens once more.

“Agravaine,” he says, the warning clear in his voice.

“Now, now, Arthur. None of that.” Agravaine raises his gloved hands, showing empty palms. His cloak swishes around his feet as he comes to a stop, Arthur’s back now to the door and both their feet having left a circle on the dusty floor. “It’s really rather simple. I saved you, which means you now owe me a debt, yes? The only thing I ask of you is not to forget that. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Arthur says flatly.

“It’s only fair, don’t you think?” his uncle says, pleasant tone never faltering. “One hand washes the other and all that. Just make sure your pet warlock knows about it too.”

Arthur stiffens, a bolt of panic exploding in his chest even as he tries to look unfazed.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, carefully calm. “You know as well as I that magic has been extinct for hundreds of years.”

Agravaine gives him a look. “Don’t play dumb, Arthur, it doesn’t suit you. Especially not now that you’re so close to uncovering all of daddy’s dirty secrets.”

Arthur can feel his eyes widen. “You know,” he says, voice suddenly raw at the implication. “You know about the secret facilities. What they’re for.”

His uncle raises a mocking eyebrow. “Of course I know,” he snaps. “Why do you think I’m down here, of all places? If I hadn’t escaped when I did, Uther would’ve had me removed - quietly and without fuss, just the way he likes it. But I’m far too familiar with his methods. After he sacked me, I didn’t return home. I knew there’d be someone waiting for me. Instead I came here, started living in the filth like a rat while your precious father is hunting after me like a bloodhound.”

“You’re lying,” Arthur rasps, lungs so tight that it’s become hard to breathe.

Agravaine laughs, a mad cackle that has the small hairs at the back of Arthur’s neck rise. 

“Lie?” he says, looking at Arthur as though he’s a complete imbecile. “Why would I? My dear nephew, I have nothing to lose. Your father has turned me into a wanted criminal overnight, has taken away my home and my rights. Your sister-” He breaks off, abruptly, and Arthur is suddenly glad that he didn’t have to hear the end of that sentence. 

There’s a moment of complete silence between them, Agravaine’s jaw working silently for a moment, before his face settles into something somber and almost…sincere. His voice is quiet now, as he continues.

“Your father is a very talented man, a master manipulator, but his one big flaw is that he’s also terrifyingly unlucky. I’ve never acted like much of an uncle with you, Arthur, and I won’t start now. But I did love my sister very much, even though I can’t say the same about you. Even so, she would’ve wanted me to help you, so let me tell you something that someone said to me once: Everything Uther Pendragon touches spoils - it’s the curse he has to bear after what he’s done.”

Arthur swallows, hard, but the lump in his throat remains. “What do you mean, what he’s done? What are you talking about?”

“Look at the files, Arthur,” Agravaine says. “And-” His gaze drops briefly before pinning Arthur in place once more. “Save your sister. Save Morgana, I’m begging you.”

*

After Agravaine has left, Arthur finds it hard to move again. It’s as if his feet are stuck to the floor, his legs aching from all the running and simple, pure exhaustion. If he weren’t so desperately worried about Merlin and having left him out there somewhere in a state of complete vulnerability, Arthur would seriously be considering just folding to the floor right then and there.

There’s so much he needs to do, so many questions clamouring for an answer, but it’s the weight of both that has him rooted to the spot. He’s at a point where he’s unsure how much more it’s possible for him to take.

In the end, it’s Merlin who finds him. Just like he always does.

He all but storms into the room and freezes when he catches sight of Arthur standing there. His knuckles stand out harshly as he grips the wall next to him, clearly overwhelmed with relief at finding him whole and unharmed. Arthur can relate all too well, his eyes flickering over Merlin, carefully taking him in.

He looks pale in the sickly lighting of the room, even though Arthur knows that technically his skin colour can’t change. His face is drawn tight with worry and there’s a wild look about his eyes and of course, _of course_ he hadn’t done as Arthur had instructed.

Arthur closes his eyes, intends it to be brief, but has trouble opening them again. He’s just so very tired.

“Just once, Merlin,” he says quietly. “Couldn’t you have done what I told you?”

Merlin says nothing, just crosses the room with a few firm strides that carry him almost straight into Arthur. He’s shivering, Arthur notes, but his body is radiating warmth and Arthur has leant into it before he even knows what he’s doing. Merlin’s arms close around him, almost tight enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs as he hugs him fiercely. Arthur grips back, curling his fingers into the coarse fabric of Merlin’s cloak and holds on so hard his fingers ache with it.

“You prat,” Merlin whispers hoarsely, his breath warm against Arthur neck. “You scared me half to death.”

“Good to know I’m not alone with that, then,” Arthur says, and even to his own ears it sounds hollow.

Merlin’s hand is soft in his hair, against the nape of his neck.

“What happened?”

Arthur lets out a breath. “I met my uncle. Apparently my father has been chasing him because he knows too much.”

Merlin’s hold on him tightens as he makes a soft sound of surprise, breathes out a curse. “Shit, Arthur.”

“Quite,” Arthur says, going for sarcasm but barely managing an edge. “Can we go home now? I really just-” He presses his eyes shut, hard enough to see dark spots and not nearly enough to stop the sharp sting of tears. “Need to leave this place.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says simply and Arthur can feel the gentle brush of his lips against his temple. “Let’s go home.”

*

Letting go of Merlin had been hard, but Arthur had forced himself to pry his hands loose and Merlin’s fingers had twined through his and not let go the entire way. He’s still shivering by the time they get to the flat and they take a hot shower together, getting rid of the filth and mud, before crawling into bed.

Arthur is itching to go through the stolen files, but his body is literally incapable of moving and the lure of Merlin’s soft skin and warm arms proves too much to resist and he falls into a deep, blank sleep.

He wakes up at noon the next day, his legs all but on fire with pain and so stiff and sore that Arthur thinks he might not be able to stand at all. Merlin takes one look at him and takes pity, sliding onto the bed with him and gently massaging Arthur’s calves and all the way up his thighs, turning his legs back into something that actually _feels_ like legs instead of just a mess of aching muscles.

After that, he makes Arthur eat some toast and Arthur tells him about his run-in with Agravaine.

By the time they settle down in front of the holo-desk it’s early evening and Arthur’s stomach feels as though it’s eating itself from the inside, dread pooling heavily in his gut and his mouth as dry as his throat. He knows somehow, _knows_ , that if he looks at those files, then that would be it. Knows that the last few threads of his belief, the remaining ruins of the crumbling walls that are his respect for his father - his blind faith in everything he’d ever told Arthur - would finally crumble to dust.

Merlin, for once sitting on a chair at his side rather than his usual spot on the floor, takes his hand and holds it tight.

Arthur slots the pin into its port and watches the files appear on the holo-desk. Taking a deep breath, he flicks his fingers over the smooth surface and brings them up in an arch around them.

At first, he isn’t sure what exactly he’s looking at here, other than a collection of random profiles of people he doesn’t recognise, listing things such as age and medical history. It’s only when he takes a closer look that two things jump out at him. One is a medical note concerning the optimal dosage of particular sedatives, the other a point that simply reads _Date and location of capture_.

Capture, Arthur reads again, then again, unable to make his eyes move beyond the one word. Capture.

“He’s locking people up at HQ,” Arthur hears himself say, hardly even aware of his mouth forming the words.

“Not just people,” Merlin says faintly. “Sorcerers.” His voice breaks off and he visibly has to swallow. “At least now we know what the sedatives are for. With that many magic users in one place- he has to keep them…placid.”

Merlin sounds as if he can barely get the words out, looking sick with horror. His grip on Arthur’s hand is so tight by now that it’s painful, but Arthur’s grateful for it, feels as though it’s the last thing anchoring him to coherency.

“But _why_?” Arthur asks, shocked when his voice comes out hoarse. He feels completely lost, set adrift in a place where nothing seems to make sense anymore. “What does he want with them?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know, Arthur.”

They just sit there for a moment, surrounded by personal details of people his father apparently keeps incarcerated in the same building Arthur’s been working at for almost every day of the past four years. His stomach roils and he’s afraid he’s going to be sick.

It just doesn’t make any _sense_. Yes, his father has always made his opinion of magic very clear, but to actively hunt down sorcerers and lock them up? To what end? To stop others from finding out that magic isn’t actually extinct? But then why keep them at HQ of all places?

“Arthur, look,” Merlin says suddenly, letting go of Arthur’s hand and picking out one of the files. “Isn’t that the name of your father’s PA? Nimueh?”

There’s no picture, but, as Arthur scans the profile with ever growing horror, he finds that the details all match up. The date of capture is 2331, the year Arthur was born, which suddenly puts all this talk about Nimueh and Uther having known each other for ages into an entirely new light.

“It says she’s a High Priestess,” Arthur reads out numbly. “But why would she help him?”

Merlin lets out a breath. “She might not be doing it willingly. If she really is a High Priestess, then she’s very powerful. It’s highly unlikely that she’s just letting herself be bossed about by a non-magic user.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, but it’s hardly enough to elevate the pressure in his temples.

“I need-” He breaks off, waves his hand in an indeterminable gesture and ends up simply getting up and walking away from the files still glowing accusingly from his work station. He doesn’t know what he needs, doesn’t know what the fuck is even happening anymore.

He feels Merlin’s eyes on him as he pours himself a glass of water with shaking hands, then puts it aside without taking a single sip.

He’s just considering going up to the roof to get some air, when Merlin’s voice drifts over to him.

“Arthur, you really need to see this.”

Arthur’s head is ready to burst and he feels like he’s toeing some kind of invisible line without knowing what might happen if he missteps and crosses it somehow.

“What is it?” he asks, tired beyond belief.

“I found something else,” Merlin’s voice is graver than Arthur’s ever heard it before, making his heart instantly hammer against his ribcage. “It’s a file about your sister.”

Arthur can hardly feel his legs as he walks back to the holo-desk, but he thinks they might be shaking. Merlin looks at Arthur as though he’s afraid he’s going to fall apart any second. He latches onto his hand again and Arthur doesn’t protest as he starts scanning the file in front of him. He reads it once. Then again. Then one more time.

The letters are running together in front of his eyes, swimming in and out of focus. He hasn’t stepped over the line, he’s been flung across it so hard he isn’t even sure if he can still see it from where he’s landed and the only thing that remains is this, right here.

That Morgana isn’t insane. She’s a seer.


	3. Disassembled

**Part III: Disassembled**

****

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice becomes increasingly alarmed as he follows in Arthur’s wake. “Arthur, wait. We should talk about this.”

Arthur ignores him, his legs carrying him onwards. It’s as if they don’t belong to him. His face feels as though it’s been set in stone, his jaw so tense his teeth are aching.

“Arthur, please.” The brush of Merlin’s fingers against his arm is tentative, barely-there, but Arthur shrugs him off. 

It’s angry and abrupt and Arthur can see the hurt flashing in Merlin’s eyes, but Arthur can’t, he _can’t_ -

He takes a harsh breath and looks away. There’s an itch beneath his skin, as if his despair and all that white-hot anger is writhing right underneath, burrowing into his flesh. It makes Arthur want to claw it off, makes him want to scream and cry and tear at his hair. Instead he stares stoically as the ascender’s door opens and he squares his shoulders as he gets in.

Merlin follows, silent. He doesn’t try to touch Arthur again, but Arthur can feel his eyes on him, heavy with concern. And Arthur _wants_ , wants the comfort Merlin’s offering so very badly, but his muscles are stiff and his anger too raw. He doesn’t trust himself, can’t trust himself, filled to the brim as he is and ready to spill over any moment.

He doesn’t think, his mind stuck between a frozen sort of horror and his thoughts clamouring inside his head, shouting over each other in a way that makes it impossible to follow any of the threads and makes his temples throb.

Later, Arthur won’t be able to recall how he’d gotten here, his haze only broken when he finds himself in Morgana’s second bathroom, surrounded by medication. He stares at them, at all the drugs lined up neatly in Morgana’s old fashioned cabinets; carefully measured out in neat little cartridges, ready to be loaded into a hypospray and shot straight into Morgana’s bloodstream where they would turn her into a mindlessly pliant _thing_ that would smile dopily at Arthur without seeing him, that-

Arthur’s hand shoots out before he even knows what he’s doing, sweeping everything inside from the shelves. He can hardly see, his eyes are stinging viciously and he lashes out blindly, rips apart whatever falls into his hands. Blood is pounding in his ears, drowning out the sounds of destruction and his own, ragged breathing. His throat aches and it’s only then that he realises that he’s making these small, harsh animal-like sounds.

The fight leaves him a moment later, and as his knees give, Merlin’s arms are there to catch him. They sink to the floor together amidst hyposprays and cartridges and mirror shards and Arthur turns his face away and into the familiar warmth of Merlin’s neck, lets himself be held. He swallows down his sobs, angry tears burning in his eyes and Merlin is talking softly, murmuring nonsense; Arthur can feel the vibrations of it, but can’t hear what it is he’s saying. It doesn’t matter.

“Arthur.”

A hand touches his shoulder an Arthur would recognise it anywhere. He pulls back, out of Merlin’s arms.

“Morgana,” he says and it sounds small and choked, like a child.

“I’ll wait outside,” Merlin says, letting go of Arthur with one more gentle squeeze. He brushes his lips against Arthur’s temple, before he gets up and leaves the bathroom.

Arthur makes as if to get up as well, but Morgana takes the decision from him and joins him on the floor instead. She looks mostly clear-eyed, though her dress and hair are a little rumpled, the way they always are when she’d settled down for a nap. Arthur touches her braid, follows the line where is falls over her shoulder. It’s what he used to do when he was very young, before their father had sent him off to school and told him that he had to behave like a man from now on.

Morgana’s face softens and her eyes are bright when she opens her arms. Arthur hugs her so tightly he fears he might be hurting her, but Morgana doesn’t protest, holds him just as fast.

“You can’t forgive me for this,” Arthur says, whispers it against her shoulder.

Morgana touches his hair, ruffles it a little the way she’d always done to annoy him.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, her voice sharp but without any hard edges. “This wasn’t you. You didn’t do this.” 

She squeezes him, brief and tight, then draws back a little, far enough to be able to look at Arthur. To cup his face between gentle hands and wipe at the wetness on his his cheeks. Arthur’s too exhausted to be embarrassed, lets her handle him like a mother would her child and realises that it’s always been a little like this, with them. Morgana, even though she’s only five years older than him, has always been the closest thing to a mother Arthur’s ever known. 

“All you’ve ever done is take care of me, protect me,” she says. “None of this is your fault, Arthur, do you understand?”

But Arthur just shakes his head, because it is. All of it. He should’ve realised it sooner, should’ve dug deeper, should’ve-

He clenches his jaw.

“You know about them, don’t you?” he says instead, low and weary, frightened to have it confirmed. “About the sorcerers, about what father is doing to them. You told me yourself. You said- You said they were sleeping and that I have to wake them. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

Morgana takes his hand and Arthur doesn’t deserve her love, but he clutches it anyway.

“Yes,” she says simply.

Arthur swallows. “I’ll get them out. I promise you I won’t fail you, Morgana, not again.”

Morgana sighs, tugs him closer and presses a kiss to his forehead, soft and familiar.

“You never failed me,” she says quietly. “I’ve always been proud of you, little brother.”

Arthur bows his head to hide a fresh set of tears.

*

They settle in the kitchen, the four of them.

Arthur sits down at Merlin’s side and takes his hand, uncaring about anything other than wanting to wipe the worried look from his face, his jaw tight with it and his eyes wide and dark. Arthur threads their fingers together and gives him a small smile, the barest lift of his lips but enough to relax the tense line of Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin smiles back, a little watery, holding tightly onto Arthur’s hand, but it’s enough to make something loosen in Arthur’s chest.

Morgana makes them hot chocolate and brings a tray of homemade biscuits Arthur remembers her baking the day before yesterday. She looks tired now and more withdrawn, the drugs lingering in her system finally taking over once more. Arthur watches as she curls up in her usual seat by the window.

Ariadne streaks past them, a blur of black, and leaps onto Morgana’s lap, where she settles. Merlin looks between Arthur and Gwen and Arthur gives him a nod, squeezing Merlin’s hand one last time before letting go and watching him join Morgana by the window. Ariadne, the treacherous beast, pushes her head against Merlin’s fingers and purrs loud enough for Arthur to hear it all the way over here.

“So what happens now?” Gwen asks quietly, drawing Arthur’s gaze back to her.

She looks pale, her face drawn and Arthur knows that all of this must be as great a shock to her as it was to Arthur. She’s a nurse, has been with Morgana night and day, administering medication and treated her like a mental patient, only to find out that she’d basically drugged a healthy woman into submission for years.

Arthur clears his throat and leans a little closer, keeping his voice pitched for her ears only.

“I’m going to talk to Lance, tell him what’s going on,” he says. “I want Morgana somewhere safe before I tell father that I know. I don’t-” He swallows, but forces himself to go on. “I’m not sure what he’ll do once he finds out and it’s best to play it safe.”

Gwen nods. “Good thinking. But where will we go? You father is a resourceful man, if he wants to find us, he’ll easily be able to track us down.”

“I’ll think of something,” Arthur says, feeling grim. “What’s most important now, is to get Morgana off the drugs. No more medication, Gwen, do you understand? I want all of it thrown out. She’s to get nothing, not even sleeping aids.”

Gwen visibly swallows, but doesn’t protest. “No more medication, got it.” She looks as if to say more, then hesitates.

“What?” Arthur prompts mildly.

“You know that she’s been on that medication for years,” Gwen says, lowering her voice even further as her eyes briefly flicker to where Morgana and Merlin are talking. “It won’t be easy for her to just stop taking it and it’ll get a lot worse before it gets better.”

“I know.” Arthur looks away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He takes a deep breath. “Gwen, I don’t want you to blame yourself for anything, you couldn’t possibly have known and you were just doing your job. You’ve always been good to Morgana and I appreciate everything you’ve done for her.”

Gwen’s eyes are warm despite the clear lines of stress on her face and she reaches over to touch his hand.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she says softly. “It means a lot. Morgana has become one of the most important people in my life and I want to go with her.” She bites her lip. “Lance and her, I can’t lose them and I want to stand by them. And Elyan- I’d like to tell him as well. We don’t have any family left in Camelot and he’d want to do what’s right.”

Arthur gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “He’s your brother, Gwen, and a good man. If he wants to go with you then I certainly won’t stop him.”

Gwen nods, then grips his hand a little tighter, pulling it between both her palms, looking at him intently. “Be careful, Arthur.”

Arthur tries for a smile and manages something at least very close to it. 

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

Gwen smiles, shaky but sincere.

*

Lance takes it about as well as anyone can be expected to take such a revelation.

Arthur tries to break it as gently as he can, but he knows better than to sugar coat anything. Lance doesn’t say anything for a long time and Arthur doesn’t press him. In many ways, Lance’s moral codex is even tighter than Arthur’s and Arthur knows - even though he knows that Lance would’ve wanted it this way - that he’s just condemned his best friend to a life of guilt right alongside himself.

Merlin and Arthur leave him to stare blankly into space, seated stiffly on the couch while he slowly digests everything, and depart for the kitchen. The aquarium does nothing to conceal the way Merlin steps into his personal space, how Arthur lets himself be crowded against the counters and pulls Merlin close to him for a kiss.

But Arthur doesn’t care, not anymore, and he knows that Lance has long since suspected the nature of Arthur’s feelings. So Arthur kisses Merlin, open and shameless with barely a foot of glass and water between them and his best friend, and when they rejoin Lance in the living area, he gives Arthur a knowing look and smiles at them both.

“Where do you propose I take them?” Lance asks later, when the sky has darkened and most of the shock has warn off.

“I’m not sure,” Arthur says, his ring cool against his lip as he rubs at it thoughtfully. “I have Gwaine’s address. Knowing him, he probably has a list of places one can escape to if the need arises.”

“Gwaine?” Lance asks, eyebrows up. “I didn’t know you’d stayed in touch.”

Arthur clears his throat. “Not in touch per se…”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Lance says suddenly, quiet but without censure. “You broke into HQ last week. That’s how you got the information.”

“Yes.” Arthur sees no point in denying it. “Leon recognised me, but he let me go and hasn’t reported me. And Nimueh,” He pauses, licks his lips. “She’s a sorceress, a High Priestess apparently. We think my father has done something to bind her to his service.”

“Most likely a blood oath,” Merlin says, grim-faced. “It’s pretty much foolproof and the only thing I’d imagine that could bind someone as powerful as a High Priestess.”

Lance looks vaguely ill. “A blood oath?”

“It’s a spell where the people involved have to bleed into a cup and then the one swearing the oath has to drink it, binding them to the other’s will,” Merlin explains, sounding mostly matter-of-fact while Lance has turned steadily greener with every word. “It’s only breakable by death.”

Lance rubs his face and Arthur sympathises whole-heartedly.

“Gods, this is insane,” Lance says, a little hoarsely. “Magic isn’t extinct and your father is keeping sorcerers in secret facilities in HQ, it’s…” He trails off, looking defeated.

Arthur sighs. “Listen, I’ll give you Gwaine’s address and you can meet with him in the next few days, figure out where to go. And after you’re gone, I’m going to look at it for myself.”

“Why do you think he does it?” Lance asks quietly. “Why does he keep them there?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out, if it’s the last thing I do.”

*

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” Arthur asks that night, cocooned in darkness and in Merlin’s warmth, murmurs it into Merlin’s skin.

Merlin shifts, kisses his chest and hugs him close. “Yes.”

Arthur sighs and presses his nose into Merlin’s neck. “It’s hard.”

“I know,” Merlin murmurs, threading his fingers through Arthur’s hair and Arthur can feel his QuanticHeart beating beneath the palm of his hand. “The right thing usually is.”

*

They decide not to tell Elena, Mithian and Percy anything, unwilling to drag them into the mess and put them in a position where they’d be forced to lie - especially once it’s found out that Morgana left with Lance, Gwen, Elyan and Gwaine. Arthur is grateful they’re not involved, tucked away safely in ignorance and as far away from his father as he can get them.

The few times Arthur sees him, Gwaine’s smile is strained and there’s a tight look about his face. He never says it, but Arthur knows that he’s thinking about Percy. He wishes that he could offer some kind of comfort, something, but he knows that it could never be enough and so he keeps silent.

When Gwaine first mentions the druids, Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up and he can feel his eyes widen.

“ _Druids_?” Arthur says incredulously. “Seriously? But there haven’t been any druids since-” 

But then he catches Merlin’s raised eyebrows and the quirk of his lips and cuts himself off. Because of course, if magic is still around, why wouldn’t the druids be?

“They offer refuge for people that have to flee the cities,” Gwaine says. “Morgana would be in good hands there. They have people who can teach her how to use her magic.”

The realisation comes like a bolt of lightning, striking Arthur and leaving him grim and his chest painfully tight.

“You knew, didn’t you,” he says quietly. “About magic not being extinct. You knew.”

And it’s not a question because Arthur already knows. At Gwaine’s stricken expression, Arthur’s stomach twists and he feels sick, sick with all the lies and so tired of it all. Beside him, Merlin sucks in a sharp breath, his hand gripping Arthur’s thigh and Arthur covers it with his own, grateful that if anything, he’s not entirely alone in this ever growing sea of revelations. That no matter what happens, no matter how many times Arthur is set adrift into the storm on nothing but a rickety raft, Merlin will be right there with him, keeping them afloat.

Gwaine clears his throat and it’s the first time Arthur has ever seen him look awkward.

“I did,” he says, his hands kneading together for a moment before stilling. He sits up a little straighter. “Listen, Arthur, I wanted to tell you, I did, but it’s…complicated. The people from Below, we- we have to stick together, you know? It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just,” He breaks off on a frustrated sigh. Arthur’s fingers clench, his jaw tight, and Merlin turns his hand and links their fingers, grounding him. 

“Look,” Gwaine says, looking at Arthur with a firm, but earnest expression. “Your father’s a bastard. He’s done a lot of fucked up things and there’s still a lot you don’t know - hell, I don’t even know half of them. All I know is that there’s this prophecy and your father’s been obsessing over it since he found out.”

Arthur’s eyebrows once more inch towards his hairline. “A prophecy,” he says flatly. “Of course. Next you’ll be telling me that I have to go and rescue a princess.”

Gwaine’s mouth twitches. “I’d say you’re enough of a princess all by yourself. No need for another one.”

Merlin’s small laugh sounds a little strangled, but it loosens something in Arthur’s chest. He scowls at them both, torn between anger and being grateful for Gwaine’s attempt at lightening the ever darkening mood.

“So, what does this mysterious prophesy say?” Arthur asks.

Gwaine shrugs, looking uneasy. “I don’t really know that much about it. Something about destroying the house Pendragon and a war that will bring magic back to Albion. And there’s- they mention a sorcerer, the most powerful sorcerer who ever lived. They say he’s one half of a whole that will turn the tide - whatever that means.” Gwaine stops and Arthur can tell there’s something more, something Gwaine is reluctant to tell him.

“What?” Arthur presses. “Gwaine, tell me.”

Gwaine sighs, his eyes flickering briefly towards Merlin, before coming to rest on Arthur once more. “The sorcerer, they call him Emrys.”

 Arthur can feel Merlin tense and Arthur can’t do anything other than squeeze his hand even tighter. The way Gwaine had said it sounded different, but still far too similar to be a coincidence.

“M-RYS?” Arthur echoes. “Like our android line?”

Gwaine shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s spelled differently, it could be a coincidence.” Even as he says it, Arthur can tell he’s not convinced. 

“Or it could be my father deliberately choosing the name to mock the prophesy.”

Gwaine nods, uncharacteristically solemn. “Or that.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. He wishes that just for once, things wouldn’t be so very fucked up.

*

“What do you think?” Arthur asks later, once they’re back home.

They’re in the kitchen and Arthur is watching Merlin make a mess as he cooks Arthur dinner.

“About the prophesy?” Merlin asks as he stirs the vegetables. Arthur nods. “It’s hard to say without knowing the whole thing. We didn’t see anyone with that name on the list-”

“The list isn’t complete.”

“I know, but I’m just saying there’s no other evidence of this Emrys guy other than this hushed up prophesy.”

Arthur frowns. “You don’t think it’s real?”

“I didn’t say that.” Merlin stops and stares at the food, looking pensive. “But prophecies are complicated. Dangerous. They’re never straightforward and there’s always more than one way to interpret them. I’ve come across this thing in one of the more modern books, an analysis on how once a person whose involved in a prophecy learns about it, it can be the catalyst for the prophecy to happen in the first place.”

Arthur’s knuckles turn white as he presses them into the breakfast bar, his ring digging into his skin. “Are you saying that it’s possible that because my father found out about the prophecy he somehow started the events that would make it come true?”

Merlin bites his lip. “It’s a possibility. But as I said, one never with these things. Fact is that knowing about it influences your decisions. So don’t get too hung up on the whole M-RYS/Emrys thing. It might just be one of those things.” Arthur doesn’t say anything and Merlin’s face is soft and open when he pushes the pan off the heat and turns fully towards him. “We’ll work it out, yeah?”

Arthur lets out a breath. He knows that the words have been thrown around far too much lately, stale with repetition and tasting increasingly bitter with the desperate wish that only they were true. But the truth is that nothing at all is working out. There are no solutions, only more mysteries at every turn, more jagged pieces in a jigsaw that just doesn’t want to come together - where bits appear only for Arthur to realise that there’s still too many missing to make a difference. And he’s just so endlessly tired of it all.

Merlin is still looking at him, his brows now having slowly drawn together in worry, but as much as Arthur wants to say something positive or reassuring, it just won’t come. So he doesn’t say anything at all, just reaches for Merlin and reels him in. Merlin comes without resistance, lets Arthur tug him close, between the warmth of his parted thighs where he sits perched on one of the barstools.

The stool is high enough for Arthur to be just that inch taller that Merlin usually has on him, and it makes it all the easier to capture his lips with his own. Merlin tilts into it, presses close and curls his fingers around Arthur’s nape, dragging him deeper just as Arthur’s tongue pushes into his mouth. Arthur kisses him, kisses him until he’s breathless with it and Merlin’s blunt nails have dug half-moons into Arthur’s skin, their hips increasingly restless.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, presses it into Arthur’s neck before sucking hot blood to the surface. Arthur can feel the gentle press of teeth, knows that it will leave a mark. He tightens his fingers in Merlin’s hair, bares his neck for better access as he bites down on a groan. “Your dinner…”

Arthur uses his grip on Merlin’s hair to guide their mouths back together, wet and open and messy.

“Not hungry,” he mutters, unsure if the words reach Merlin at all between the sounds of harsh breathing and hungry kisses.

And he’s quite sure that all thoughts about dinner are very much forgotten by the time his hands have found a way beneath Merlin’s tshirt and Merlin is rutting against him in a slow, filthy rhythm that has Arthur gasping and desperate in no time at all. And it’s just when Merlin’s hand worms its way between them, his fingers tracing the shape of Arthur’s painfully hard cock through his jeans before pressing his palm there, right at the tip-

Arthur’s breathless groan is drowned out by the beeping of his communicator and Merlin all but slumps against him with a barely contained sound of frustration. Arthur very much agrees.

Fishing for the communicator with clumsy fingers, Arthur feels Merlin’s hand slide away from his throbbing hardness to rub at his thigh. Arthur knows it’s intended as a soothing gesture, but he can’t help but shiver as desire sparks hotly beneath his skin. Wrapping his arm around Merlin, palm pressed against the warmth of his back, Arthur clears his throat and takes the call.

“Arthur, it’s me,” Gwen says on the other end. “Can you come down here?”

Arthur closes his eyes, puts his forehead to Merlin’s temple. “Of course. Is everything alright?”

“I’m not sure,” Gwen says. “Morgana’s restless and she keeps asking for you, repeating the same things all the time.”

Arthur sighs. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

He disconnects the call and stuffs his communicator back into his pocket, before taking the time to let his other arm join the one around Merlin’s waist, turning his nose into his neck as he hugs him close.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Merlin asks softly, carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur inhales deeply even though he knows he’ll find no other scent than the detergent they use.

“No, it’s alright.”

They detangle themselves reluctantly and Merlin presses one last, lingering kiss to his lips that tastes of the promise that Merlin will be waiting for him, just as he always is.

*

Morgana’s gaze is far away and her eyes fever-bright when Arthur sits down at her bedside, the deep bruises underneath making her usually porcelain skin look even more papery, almost translucent. The sheets are twisted around her restless body and when Arthur takes her hand she claws at his, clutching it tightly as she curls towards him.

“Arthur,” she whispers, voice hoarse and her lips pale and cracked. “Arthur, she has the cup…you need to…the cup…” She trails off, shivering.

Arthur frowns and puts a hand on her brow, brushing back her hair, damp strands sticking stubbornly to her skin.

“She’s been saying that for hours now,” Gwen says quietly, her hand finding Arthur’s shoulder. It feels heavy, her grip tight, and Arthur wonders if she’s seeking comfort rather than giving it.

“Has she slept at all?” Arthur asks, not taking his eyes off Morgana.

Gwen sighs. “An hour or two, if that.”

Morgana thrashes on the bed, fixing Arthur with wide eyes. “The cup…Arthur, she has it…it’s broken…broken and she- father, you have to…”

“The cup is broken?” Arthur asks, mystified, but Gwen only shakes her head.

“I don’t know what she means. It’s the same words over and over. She’s only mentioned your father a couple of times, but the cup keeps coming up. So does _she_ \- whoever that is.”

Arthur presses his lips together. It’s hard, after so many years of being sure that Morgana’s words are the result of her delusion, to suddenly know that what she sees is actually true. Actually happening. Having stumbled across the topic of seers during his research period with Merlin, Arthur knows that the visions tend to be very subjective, that different decisions can influence them and that the timeframe is always ambiguous at best. There’s no way of knowing if what the seer sees is happening right now, a day from now, or a week, maybe even a year.

And with Morgana all but delirious, the cryptic nature of her visions only increases.

He leans closer, taking her hand in both of his own. “Morgana, who has it? What cup?”

But it’s clear Morgana can’t hear him, probably doesn’t even fully realise that he’s right there beside her. The sound of his voice seems to calm her, however, so Arthur settles in next to her and starts talking aimlessly.

Without chemical help, it takes much longer to soothe Morgana into something resembling rest. It’s not late yet when Arthur makes his way back upstairs, but he’s all but wiped out.

 Merlin isn’t in the living area, so Arthur heads straight for the bedroom and finds him stretched out across the bed, magic books strewn all over the sheets, his nose in buried in the tome before him, broad spine propped up against a pillow.

Arthur doesn’t interrupt him straight away, first takes the time to get out of his clothes.

“Find anything interesting?” he asks as he nudges at Merlin’s legs and some of the books to make room for himself.

Merlin hums. “Not really.” 

He absently flicks his fingers and the books fly off the bed, neatly stacking themselves on one of the bedside tables, before shifting and turning towards Arthur. His eyes darken a little when he finds Arthur naked, too lazy to even bother putting on his sleeping pants.

“Oh, hello,” he murmurs, smiling, and promptly rolls on top of him when Arthur finally manages to get on the bed properly.

Arthur laughs quietly, rolling his eyes. “Idiot.” He slides his arms around Merlin’s waist, finding the hem of his tshirt and slips his hands inside.

Merlin leans in for a kiss, a gentle brush of lips as he traces a line along Arthur’s jaw. “You okay?”

Arthur sighs, rucking Merlin’s tshirt up all the way, palming softly at the line of his spine.

“Yeah,” he says, breath hitching when Merlin ducks his head to slide his lips lower, his tongue brushing Arthur’s throat, then lower still until they close over the mark they’d left earlier. “She just kept going on about a cup.” He moves his head further to the side, giving Merlin more access and gasping when he lingers to suck at the mark again, hard.

“A cup?” Merlin asks curiously, kissing Arthur’s chest. “Did she say anything else?”

Arthur threads his fingers through Merlin’s thick hair, arches his back and presses closer to his mouth.

“She kept saying that it’s broken and talking about a _she_ and-” Arthur stops, has to bite down on his lip when Merlin’s tongue flicks out just shy of his nipple. “And our father, for some unfathomable reason.”

“Strange,” Merlin says into his chest, but it’s around that time that Arthur’s brain decides to shut off, moaning breathlessly when this time Merlin closes his lips around his nipple and laves it with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth.

And Arthur arches and _wants it_ , but he’s so tired and there’s a lingering ache in his legs from their mad chase from the jellyfish and Merlin must sense it, because he’s gentle and slow, batting Arthur’s hands away when he tries to help him undress.

He straddles Arthur’s hips, naked now, and his lips are still so soft, kissing Arthur deeply but languidly - catching both of Arthur’s hands and twining their fingers together as he pins them above Arthur’s head when Arthur tries to reach for his cock.

It makes something hot and a little dark unfurl in Arthur’s gut, the way Merlin is holding him down, at once gentle but firm, and his hips snap up, his leaking hardness sliding between Merlin’s arsecheeks and making them both groan. Merlin grinds down against him and Arthur struggles, half-hearted, against Merlin’s grip, but Merlin only presses him down with more intent.

“Merlin-” Arthur protests, breathless and more than a little dizzy with how much he loves the feeling of Merlin on top of him, taking control of him.

“Let me,” Merlin murmurs into his mouth, kissing him again and again, running his tongue gently across Arthur’s bottom lip before sucking it inside. “Let me do this, let me take care of you.”

So Arthur lets him. Lets Merlin kiss him breathless, obediently keeping his arms over his head, fingers clenching into one of the pillows as Merlin closes a wet palm around his cock, slicking him up before shifting his weight and taking Arthur inside him, sliding down his achingly hard cock in one, smooth glide.

It’s torturously slow, even more so when Merlin leans down over him and presses their chests together as he kisses Arthur some more, moaning into Arthur’s mouth as his cock leaks between the press of their stomachs. And it’s only when they’re both desperate with it, their muscles trembling with tension and the need for release, that Merlin sits up again.

When Arthur closes his hands around Merlin’s hips this time, Merlin doesn’t protest, simply braces himself against Arthur’s chest and sets a punishing rhythm that has Arthur arching almost clear off the bed, the ache in his legs sharp but unimportant as he digs his heels into the bedding and thrust up and _up_ and he needs it so badly, so-

Fire races down his spine, pools in his gut and he wants to keep watching Merlin above him, pale and beautiful with his head thrown back, and those _sounds_ , gods- 

Arthur’s eyes slam shut and his fingers grip in hard, holding them flush together as he shudders through his release, feeling Merlin grind down and rotate his hips, before he shatters as well, hot wetness spilling between them as the blunt edges of his nails dig into Arthur’s chest and make another rush of pleasure surge through Arthur’s body.

Slumping forward, Merlin brings his dry forehead to Arthur’s sweat-slick one, nuzzles him gently, then brushes a kiss against Arthur’s panting mouth. Arthur leans into it, messy and clumsy with exhaustion, shivering when their tongues slide together.

Merlin shifts a little and Arthur reflexively tightens his hold, his tongue heavy and his brain not quite aware of what his mouth is saying. 

“Don’t go.”

Merlin kisses him again, fingers cradling Arthur’s jaw, then brush back his fringe. 

“I’m not,” he whispers. “But I’m crushing you, let me move to-”

But Arthur doesn’t budge, fits his hand to the nape of Merlin’s neck and brings it back to his shoulder.

“Stay.”

And Merlin sighs, and does.

*

“Arthur.” Something warm, a hand, brushes Arthur’s cheek, then closes around his shoulder, giving him a gentle but insistent shake. “ _Arthur_. Wake up.”

Arthur’s eyes snap open, the lingering feeling of sleep retreating rapidly. He finds Merlin hovering over him and Arthur can make out the anxious lines on his face even in the dimness of the room. Outside, night has fallen, though it’s impossible to tell what time it is.

“Merlin?” he asks, voice still hoarse from sleep, unthinkingly reaching up to touch Merlin’s face. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“I just realised something,” Merlin says, the words rushing from him, edged with urgency. “You said Morgana was talking about a cup, that it’s broken and that she mentioned a _she_ and your father, right?”

Arthur frowns, completely lost. “Yes?”

He tries to sit up more, doing his best to detangle himself from between twisted sheets.

“I didn’t think anything of it at first, but I remembered something.” 

Merlin shifts and light pierces Arthur’s eyes as the bed lamp above them wakens to life. Arthur curses, rubs at his closed lids and when he opens them again, Merlin is shoving an open book into his lap - one of the old magic tomes.

“Look at this,” he says, tapping the page before them. “The Cup of Life. It can basically bring you back from the dead if you sacrifice another life in exchange.”

Arthur is struggling to catch up. “Merlin, what are you on about? Couldn’t this have waited until morning?”

Merlin looks grim. “I’m not sure it could’ve, actually. Remember what we said about Nimueh? That your father probably forced her into a blood oath?” Arthur nods, even more confused now, but Merlin ploughs on. “And remember that a blood oath can only be broken by death?”

Realisation dawns. “You mean-?”

Merlin nods. “If Nimueh has any chance of breaking the oath, then it’s with this. The _she_ Morgana mentioned must be her and she also mentioned your father.” He gives Arthur a grave look. “When Morgana said that it was broken- I don’t think she meant the cup, she meant the oath, Arthur. Nimueh is about to break the blood oath with your father - she might already have. That means she’ll be free to do what she wants. And, frankly, I can’t imagine she’s feeling very charitable at the moment.”

Arthur’s spine stiffens, his eyes wide as fear rushes through him, shortening his breath. He suddenly knows exactly what they’re talking about here. He tries to drag in a deep breath, but his chest hurts with it.

“She’s going to kill him.” 

Merlin’s hands close around his shoulders, firm and grounding.

“Hey,” he says, catching Arthur’s gaze and holding it. He looks certain, sounds it when he says, “We won’t let that happen.”

Arthur swallows, tries to rein in his scattered thoughts. “I need to warn him.”

Merlin nods. “And I’ll call Lance and Gwaine. We need to get Morgana out of here.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. Then again, “Yes.”

There’s no time, so Merlin spells them clean, then summons both Arthur’s and the spare communicator, passing one to Arthur as he scrambles off the bed. Arthur can see him shivering by the time he leaves the room to make his own call.

Arthur takes a deep breath and dials his father’s number, praying that he’ll answer quickly. He does.

“What-” Uther starts, irritably, but Arthur cuts him off.

“Where are you? Are you at home?”

His father makes another disgruntled sound on the other end. “Arthur, it’s the middle of the night, of course I’m-”

“Are you alone?” Arthur’s fingers hurt from the strain of clenching them around the communicator.

“Of course, what-”

“Good,” Arthur interrupts again, anxious to get it all out. “Don’t go anywhere, get your security team in, lock-down the penthouse-”

“Are you drunk?” his father’s voice cuts straight through his rant and it feels like a slap to the face.

Has his father really not heard Arthur anxious before? Had it really been such a long time since he’d allowed himself to show some form of weakness before Uther? And are they really such strangers to each other that Arthur calling in the middle of the night is more likely to be a drunken call than because he has something important to say?

“No,” Arthur grits out, teeth hurting with the strain of being clenched together. He forces himself to take a deep breath. They don’t have time for this. “Where’s Nimueh?”

And Arthur can tell just from the way his father is breathing that he’s getting truly irritated. Uther is not a patient man.

“What is the meaning of this interrogation?” he snaps.

Arthur wants to scream.

“Just _answer the bloody question_!” He doesn’t shout, but only just. “I’m _trying_ to save your life! Now tell me, where is she?”

There’s a short pause and then, _thank fuck_ , his father is finally catching on to the severity of the situation.

“I sent her to the office a while ago and then told her to take the evening off.” There’s some rustling on the other side, probably his father sitting up in bed. “Now will you tell me what the hell is going on?”

Arthur closes his eyes, braces himself. But there’s no time to ease the blow.

“Nimueh’s found a way to break the blood oath.”

Something crashes to the floor on the other side of the line and Arthur is sure he can hear his father’s breathing speed up in alarm.

“How did you-”

“It’s not important right now,” Arthur cuts him off, a hint of steel entering his voice as he’s once more vividly reminded just how many secrets his father has kept - what he’s done. “Just stay inside and don’t let anyone in. I’ll head over to HQ in a bit and see if I can find her. She doesn’t know that we know, so-”

“You will do no such thing!” his father suddenly thunders on the other end. “Arthur, she’s a sorceress, she’s dangerous! I’ve told you before, their kind-”

And Arthur hadn’t wanted to do this, doesn’t want to this, not right now, not when they’re already so pressed for time. But the words have formed on his tongue before he knows it, falling from his mouth like shards of ice.

“I know about Morgana.” The metal edge of the communicator digs harshly into his fingers. “I know what you did to her.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between them. A silence so full of words that Arthur feels he might be suffocating under their pressure.

He doesn’t know what he expects his father to say, doesn’t even dare to go so far as to hope for an apology- but nothing could have prepared him for the sucker punch that follows.

“Then you should know that I was right to do what I did.” No remorse, not even a trace of it. “Magic corrupts-”

“Shut up!” Arthur shocks himself with the raw anger of his voice, the way it rushes form in a roar of complete fury. “You’re nothing but a hypocrite and a _liar_!”

And he’s shaking, trembling so hard he’s afraid he’ll either crush or drop the communicator. His eyes are stinging - with anger, so much anger, but also disappointment and shame and-

“Arthur,” his father says, calm so _fucking_ calm. As if they aren’t discussing the fact that he’s imprisoned innocent people, as if he hadn’t drugged his _own daughter_ and made everyone believe she’s crazy. Arthur’s free hand clenches hard, begging to hit something. “Surely we can talk about this reasonably. You have to understand-”

“I’m done with reasonable, father,” Arthur says, forcefully controlled except for the slight tremor around the edges. “And, frankly, I’m done with you!”

Uther makes a strange noise Arthur has neither the strength nor the will to interpret. “Arthur-“

But Arthur yanks the communicator away from his ear and disconnects the call. For a moment, he simply stands there, panting with rage and fighting down the idiotic, useless tears that seem so determined to come out.

Then he draws his hand back and flings the communicator clear across the room.

It doesn’t break. Probably doesn’t even have a scratch, Arthur thinks viciously, _Pendragon Enterprises promises life-long durability._

The thought amuses him in a sort of unhinged way and Arthur lets out a choked sound that wants to be a laugh, but sounds pained instead.

“Arthur?” Merlin says from the doorway and Arthur turns to him, instinctive.

He’s already crossed the room to Arthur’s side, touches his face with an expression that tells Arthur that it hurts to see him this way. Arthur takes his hand, presses his lips first to the soft palm, then to his knuckles.

He can tell Merlin wants to step closer, take him in his arms, but they both know that there’s no time for that. Comfort would have to wait and Arthur’s not so naive that he doesn’t realise he’ll need it all the more once he finally uncovers the entire truth.

“It’s alright,” he says, even though it isn’t. Merlin gives him a weak smile and a gentle squeeze if his hand. “Did you talk to the others?”

Merlin nods. “Lance is already here, he was with Gwen when I called. She said she’d call Elyan. And Gwaine’s on his way. He’s bringing the car.”

Arthur lets out a breath, gripping Merlin’s hand just that little bit tighter, contradicting his next words.

“Maybe you should stay here.”

Merlin’s eyes snap to his, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Arthur swallows, carefully sets his face into something calm and determined, neither of which he feels at the moment. But he thinks of Merlin in danger, thinks of how much safer it’d be if he just waited for Arthur here, far away from Nimueh and whatever else is waiting for them there.

“I think it would be best if I went on my own,” he says, surprised how firm his voice sounds.

“You don’t mean that,” Merlin says, voice firm with conviction. “You’re just worried. But you don’t have to be.”

And Arthur can’t say anything, unable to lie again. He can feel his determination crumbling to dust, because of course he wants Merlin with him. He _always_ wants Merlin with him, but not if it means risking his life. And Merlin must’ve seen something in his face, because his expression is suddenly soft and open and he cups Arthur’s face in his palms, brushes their lips together in a whisper-soft kiss.

“Arthur,” he murmurs, touching their foreheads together. “I’m not leaving you,” And he says it as though he’s telling Arthur something as unmovable as the fact that there’s a sun in the sky. “I’m going to be at your side, like I always am, protecting you.”

Arthur lets out a breath and closes his eyes for a moment, shutting the world out and concentrating on nothing but Merlin’s warm hands on his skin and their breaths mingling together. And he wants to tell himself that it’ll be alright, that they’d make it because they’re together - but all he knows is that the feeling of dread that’s been pooling in his stomach is twisting ever deeper into his guts with no hope of abating.

*

They’d already agreed in the earlier stages of planning that Gwaine would provide the car; they can’t use anything registered to a Pendragon for obvious reasons and Elyan’s car is registered to Gwen - and both she and Lance are too closely involved with the family.

Downstairs, Gwen and Lance have almost finished packing. Morgana is up and dressed, looking better than a few hours ago and though Arthur is relieved to see it, he can’t help but think of the implications - that the blood oath is indeed already broken and they might be too late to stop Nimueh.

Each of them grab a bag, barely more then a few clothes and a handful of books, and Arthur wraps his arm around a dazed Morgana.

Their ascender ride to the roof is backdropped by Gwen and Lance discussing how far up north they can take the car before they have to ditch it. Merlin hasn’t said anything at all since they left the flat and Arthur knows by now that a quiet Merlin is never a good sign. He casts him a concerned glance, but Morgana’s hand on his arm makes him turn his head towards her.

Her eyes are glassy but lucid, her look intent.

“Be careful, Arthur,” she says quietly. 

Arthur tries his best to smile, but his mouth hardly curves at all. “I will, don’t worry.”

Morgana’s grip tightens. “I mean it. Don’t take any risks.”

The ascender glides to a stop, interrupting their exchange. Gwaine and Elyan are already there, waiting for them, and so is-

“Percy!” Gwen says, and Arthur can’t really say he’s surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Percy gives her a tight smile. He looks tired, but also determined, standing closely at Gwaine’s side with his bulging arms folded in front of his broad chest.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, quiet but clearly ready to argue should anyone disagree. No one does.

“Well, that’s what I call a tight fit,” Elyan comments dryly, eyeing Percy’s average sized hover-car.

“It’s actually quite roomy inside,” Gwaine says, almost cheerful and clearly unruffled by the fact that they’re about to flee the city. “There’s quite a bit of floor space. I put a cover down behind the passenger seat for Morgana - we can’t risk anyone getting an eyeful.”

Morgana, fever-slick brow and all, turns up her nose. She’s been even testier lately, the withdrawal making her even sharper and more short-tempered than usual.

“I’m not squishing myself onto the floor,” she says, mainly to be contrary.

Gwaine raises an eyebrow at her, never having taken Morgana’s bullshit before and clearly having no intention of starting now.

“Would you prefer the boot?”

Morgana glares at him and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“We don’t have all night,” he says tightly.

Gwaine flashes a grin. “You heard the princess,” he says. “Load the stuff in and let’s go.”

Arthur scowls at him, but his nerves are too raw to engage in any sort of useless banter. While Gwen and Elyan start filling and organising the boot, Arthur helps a reluctant Morgana onto the plushy cover on the floor behind the passenger seat. Ariadne, the devil spawn of a cat, has somehow already managed to get in and is sitting on one of the backseats, tail flicking as she observes them.

Leaning in at an awkward angle, Arthur draws Morgana close for a hug and she squeezes him tightly for a moment, before letting go. Her focus is slipping again, Arthur can tell, but her grip on his arms is tight as she fixes him with another intent look.

“Wait, there-,” she stops abruptly, her eyes glazing over and suddenly unseeing. When she speaks again, her voice is emotionless as though her words aren’t her own at all. It makes the small hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand. “Before the end, you’ll lose something important, but don’t despair, because what you’ll gain will be far more precious.”

A cold shiver claws its way down Arthur’s spine and he inwardly curses the crypticness of seers. “What do you mean? What will I lose?”

Morgana blinks, her grip suddenly loose as she throws him a confused look. “Arthur, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you alright?”

“Am I-?” Arthur stops, then tries again. “You- You just said-” But it’s clear from Morgana’s expression that she doesn’t know what Arthur’s talking about, so Arthur tails off, swallowing the rest of his words.

Morgana frowns. “Said what?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, looking down for a moment, then back at Morgana. “Just- Take good care of yourself, alright?”

She manages a weak smile. “I will, little brother.”

Arthur doesn’t hug her again, firmly telling himself that he’ll do so again soon when they next see each other, and instead straightens himself from his crouch.

The few pieces of luggage have successfully been packed away and Arthur accepts hugs and shoulder slaps, barely even registering the goodbyes being said, his mind still focused on Morgana’s strange premonition. Merlin catches his eye with a frown, but Arthur only shakes his head.

Maybe he’s reading too much into it. Maybe it’s one of those strange metaphors seers sometimes use.

It’s what Arthur tells himself when he and Merlin watch Percy manoeuvre the car onto the closest hover-track. And it’s what he’s still thinking about when they get into Morgana’s car and take off for HQ.

He just wishes he could believe it.

*

Ten minutes away from HQ, a flock of jellyfish pass them, darting this way and that, but clearly heading into the same direction before they disappear between buildings. Arthur thinks, _hopes_ , it to be a coincidence - though in Arthur’s experience, coincidence is just a fancy word for incoming trouble.

Changing to a lower hover-track, Arthur steers the car into a detour and approaches HQ from the rear instead. It’s a good thing that he had the presence of mind to take Morgana’s car instead - his own red YX900 model would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb, familiar to every vulture in the business.

There aren’t any sirens, thank the gods, but enough blue light to tinge the entire area, reflecting erratically off Pendragon HQ’s sleek facade. There’s no laser lines to mark the area, most policemen still holed up in their cars, apparently waiting for something to happen. Waiting, Arthur thinks with a sinking heart, for them to show up.

Carefully sliding off the hover-track, Arthur manoeuvres the car behind the cover of a footpath, a far enough distance away not to alert the increasing number of jellyfish.

“He doesn’t waste any time, does he,” Merlin mutters resentfully, leaning into Arthur’s side to glance out through his side of the window.

Another police car joins the party and Arthur clenches his jaw, teeth aching with it. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, too angry at himself and his ability to still be surprised at the lengths his father is obviously willing to go to.

“So, any ideas how to get out of this?” Merlin asks, his tone forcefully light in the way Arthur manages to find both annoying and soothing. “Preferably without being dragged off in restraints?”

Arthur rubs a hand across his tired face. 

“I don’t suppose you have a spell for this?” he asks, not quite believing he’s actually desperate enough to make this into a valid option.

“Sorry,” Merlin says drily. “Nothing about getting rid of an inconveniently placed police squad in any of the books.”

Arthur snorts and shifts in his seat, wracking his brain for a solution.

“What we need is a distraction,” he says, absently twisting his ring, caught in thought. “Something big to keep them busy.”

Merlin frowns, lightly tapping his finger against the dash. The faint sound cuts off suddenly and Merlin straightens, drawing Arthur’s attention.

“You’ve got the quantic magnet with you, yeah?”

Arthur gives him a puzzled look. “Yes? What good does it do if we can’t get close enough to the door to use it?”

Merlin turns serious eyes on him. “You can’t,” he says. “But I can. They won’t detect me and I know a concealment spell that’ll keep me unnoticeable enough to slip through.” His lips quirk slightly. “I’ll get us a distraction.”

But Arthur’s already shaking his head, stomach turning at the thought of leaving Merlin to wander off on his own-

“No,” he says, not quite able to hide the fear in his voice. “You’re not going in there alone.”

Merlin sighs. “Arthur, be reasonable. It’s our only option. Do you want to get in there or not?”

Arthur presses his lips together. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to like it for it to work,” Merlin says mildly. “Now give me the magnet and let me do this.”

Arthur turns around in the driver’s seat, reaching back behind it to unearth the bag where he’s put the quantic magnet and hands it to Merlin. But instead of letting go, Arthur covers Merlin’s hands with his own, feeling the cool brush of metal against the tips of his fingers - a sharp contrast to the soft warmth of Merlin’s hands.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” Arthur says quietly.

Merlin quirks a weak smile. “According to you, I’m always stupid.”

Arthur’s grip tightens. “I mean it, Merlin.”

Merlin lets out a breath, looking earnestly into Arthur’s eyes. “I promise.”

Arthur’s hands slide away, only for his fingers to catch in the folds of Merlin’s jumper as he hauls him into a kiss. It’s over too soon and Arthur has to will himself to uncurl his fingers from Merlin’s clothes. Merlin’s darts forward, kissing him again, soft and quick, before drawing back completely.

“I’ll see you inside,” he says, gives Arthur one last smile, and slips out of the car.

Arthur watches him go, follows Merlin’s familiar form with his eyes until it blends into his surroundings as the concealment spell takes effect.

Heart in his throat, he keeps his eyes fixed on the entrance, but Merlin’s spell holds firm and does its job, so Arthur has no way of knowing if he’s even inside yet, or not. And it’s only because he’s staring so intently into that particular direction, that he sees the shadow that steals out of the back entrance through the emergency ascender.

For a split second, Arthur thinks it might be Merlin, but then the shadow creeps closer and Arthur’s out of the car before he even knows what he’s doing.

The car keeps on humming, afloat next to him, as he plants himself into the middle of the footpath.

“Nimueh,” Arthur says when she’s close enough for him to hear.

Nimueh comes to a halt a few feet away, one of her hands reaching up to brush back the hood of her deep crimson cloak, revealing her sour expression. Gone is her usual business attire and, considering her reduced height, so are her heels. For the first time since Arthur’s known her, Nimueh’s hair is arranged into something simple and practical, and there’s no make-up other than her lips, which match the colour of her cloak.

It all somehow manages to make her appear both older and younger at the same time - it’s even more unsettling than usual.

She folds her arms in front of her chest, her red nails glinting as the streetlight hits them.

“Arthur,” she says, voice dripping with indignation.

Arthur scowls at her, but squares his shoulders and ploughs on. 

“I know about the facility and the sorcerers,” he says, watching intently for her reaction. “I know what happened to you.”

“Evidently,” Nimueh says with a huff. “Took you long enough. I really thought I had to spell it out for you to finally get it. And then you almost got yourself caught on top of it. Good thing your pet warlock was there to save your arse.” Arthur has trouble keeping from gaping and Nimueh rolls her eyes at him. “Oh don’t look so surprised. Not everyone’s as dense as you upper people.”

Arthur ignores the dig, too busy processing the fact that Nimueh, of all people, had apparently been helping him all along. And the way she’d said _pet warlock_ -

“You know about Merlin,” Arthur says, almost breathless with the implication. “You know what happened to him - why he is the way he is.”

“Oh, I know,” Nimueh says, her voice conversational as though they were discussing the weather, though her smirk definitely says otherwise. “But I’m not going to ruin the surprise. It’s good for your brain cells, all this independent thinking.”

Arthur feels the intense urge to strangle her. “Don’t play games with me!”

“Too late, Arthur,” Nimueh hisses, suddenly furious, her eyes slitted and making her look like an angry snake about to strike. “If you’d just let me get even with Uther then we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you’d already be down at the facility.”

“You were going to kill him!” Arthur snaps, struggling to keep his voice down. “No matter what he’s done, he’s still my father!”

“So noble.” Nimueh snorts. It’s an ugly sound. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, do you? You think your father will thank you for this? That a show of loyalty will stop his lies?” She bares her teeth in a snarl. “You know _nothing_ , Arthur. Your father is a monster, twisted by his own mistakes and forever blaming other people for what he brought on himself.” Her eyes glint at she tilts her head, expression dark. “You may be his golden boy, but believe me, he _will_ turn on you in favour of his misguided beliefs.”

A few weeks ago, Arthur would’ve defended his father tooth and nail, convinced that if anything, he was hardworking and honourable in his own right. Now, Arthur can barely bear the thought that he was once blind and naive enough to believe any of it.

“I don’t want to be like him,” he says, the confession so quiet that he almost thinks Nimueh won’t hear it, but then her expression smoothes out and… _softens_ somehow. 

And Arthur doesn’t know why he said it, doesn’t know what kind of absolution he expects from Nimueh of all people, but he never would’ve expected what follows. 

Letting out a quiet sigh, Nimueh drops her arms to her sides and takes a step closer to him, her entire stance unthreatening and a look of complete sincerity in her eyes. It almost makes her look like a different person entirely.

“Your mother would’ve been very proud of you,” she says softly and Arthur almost thinks he’s imagined it, but then Nimueh goes on. “She had a heart of gold, you know, and so much faith in the good of people - just like you. So don’t worry about being like him, Arthur, because there isn’t a single thing of him in you.” Arthur’s trembling now, he can feel it, throat so dry he can barely swallow around it. Nimueh shakes her head. “The only mistake you ever made, it’s the same your mother made - the same _I_ made. We all trusted Uther Pendragon and look where it got us.”

Arthur swallows, hard, his voice not quite steady when he finally manages to get the words out. “My mother, you-”

The crash that follows is like lightning striking down from the sky, making the footpath reverberate with the sound.

Nimueh’s cloak billows as she turns and Arthur rushes to the bannister to cast a frantic look at HQ. What he sees traps the breath in his lungs and all but liquefies his legs.

Inside the entrance hall, the dark shape of a dragon throws back its head and lets out an almighty roar. The transparent aluminium windows vibrate with the force of it, and when the dragon whips its tail, it manages to sweep across almost the entire space of the hall, demolishing the reception in its wake. 

The fountain’s glass dragon is nowhere to be seen and when Arthur looks again, the outline of the raging dragon suddenly seems terrifyingly familiar, even in motion.

“Well, your boy certainly knows how to shake things up,” Nimueh comments from beside him, all softness now gone from her face and sharp smirk back in place. “Looks like you’ve got some fun ahead of you tonight.”

Arthur, who’s been frantically trying to locate Merlin between the flailing of the dragon’s massive limbs, is as far away from cracking jokes as he possibly can be.

“Shut up, Nimueh,” he snaps, palms slick and heart thudding almost painfully in his chest. _Where are you, Merlin_ , he thinks wildly.

Inside the hall, the dragon lets out another thunderous roar, but this time it’s accompanied by a column of white-hot fire. 

Arthur clutches the metal beneath his hands so tightly it makes his ring cut painfully into his flesh. He’s ready to run all the way to the building, police be damned, when he sees it - a clear half-circle where the fire doesn’t reach, an invisible barrier that makes it harmlessly pass over. Arthur’s so relieved he has to lean against the bannister for a moment. 

He’s going to kill Merlin.

If there weren’t any sirens before, there certainly are now. It’s clear from the frantic movements inside and around the police cars that re-enforcements are being called in. No one is paying any attention to their surroundings any longer, all eyes fixed on the dragon that decides in that moment to spread it’s huge wings and shoot up off the entrance hall’s floor.

It crashes through the dome, transparent aluminium shattering like glass - and ha, isn’t that some nice irony right there. The following burst of fire lights up the sky, making the city lights appear weak and insignificant in comparison.

“You’d better hurry along,” Nimueh says from beside him. Arthur looks at her and is just in time to see her ripping off her chip-bracelet with a flash of gold. “Here, take this. They’ve probably blocked me from the main system, but it should get you through the restricted areas - they’re not linked with the main server.”

Arthur takes the bracelet, still warm from Nimueh’s skin. “Why are you helping me?”

Her lips quirk into another razor sharp smirk. “It’s not your destiny to die at my hand,” she says. “And believe me, I’m not being entirely selfless here. Your father loves you, or at least what passes for love with him. It will break his heart to lose you - can’t let that pass me up, now can I? Especially after you waltzed in and ruined my plans.”

Arthur closes his hand around her chip and looks at her, feeling for the first time as though he’s actually seen a glimpse of who Nimueh really is as a person.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it.

Nimueh waves him off, equal parts dismissive and impatient, the way she’d always done when they’d been working together. Only this time, instead of annoyed, Arthur can feel the corners of his mouth twitch just the tiniest bit.

“Piss off, Pendragon,” she says, chin tilted arrogantly. “I’ve had enough of you for tonight. The gods know our paths will cross again soon enough.”

They part ways without another word, Arthur picking up his pace to get to Merlin and Nimueh vanishing into the shadows, hood firmly back in place.

*

“I said distract them, not let a dragon loose on the city!”

Merlin intercepted Arthur at the emergency ascender and they took it, going down a few floors before switching to one inside the building. Arthur’s still riled up from recent events, heart hammering fervently in a mix of fear and anxious anticipation of what they’ll find in the secret facility. His temper is spiking hotly and Merlin is the closest outlet at the moment - though when Arthur feels him shiver at his side, he can’t not drag him close, wrapping an arm around his waist for the duration of the ascender ride.

Merlin doesn’t protest his touch, but glares at him all the same. “There’s just no pleasing you sometimes.”

Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “It’s a _dragon_ , Merlin!”

Merlin folds his arms, clearly not about to give an inch on this. 

“They’re distracted, aren’t they?” he shoots back and Arthur can only shake his head, feels Merlin’s slightly unsteady breath as he presses just a little closer into Arthur.

“Hopeless,” Arthur mutters, fitting his fingers more firmly around Merlin’s hip, before reluctantly stepping away as the ascender’s door slides open.

He steps out first, wanting to be at the front in case they run into trouble, and Merlin follows close behind. In the distance, the alarm is now blaring and Arthur doesn’t have to check to know that the whole building is already on lock-down. They make it as far as the next corner before Arthur is forced to stop them and flatten himself to the wall. He peers around it and immediately jerks back again.

Nothing short of an android army is marching their way, every one of HQ’s cleaning slash security androids (and then some) on high alert and out looking for them. And Arthur’s sure they've somehow suddenly multiplied, because he knows how many TET-RYS models are active in HQ and this is downright ridiculous.

“There’s too many,” Arthur grits out, jaw clenched. “We need to-” He breaks off suddenly, the idea striking like lightning, cutting through his frantic thoughts and bringing them together into something clear and obvious. Of course, why hadn’t he thought of that before? He grips Merlin’s arm, seeking a connection rather than as a means to guide him. “If we take a shortcut through storage room 7 we can get to the private ascender to the facility there.”

Arthur remembers this from the blueprints and sincerely hopes that it’s as straightforward as it had looked there.

Most of the actual manufacturing process happens in the industrial district, but putting android parts together is part of the final test run, before the finished product can be picked up and brought to the shops. It’s the reason why Pendragon HQ has so many floors filled with nothing but shiny new parts and assemblers ready to pick them out through the panels in the various maintenance rooms.

They don’t even make it halfway to storage room 7 before the androids have caught up with them.

Outrunning them is out of the question at this point and though Pendragon HQ was built to be spacious, the architects certainly didn’t take into consideration to make it a particularly good battleground. They’re forced to stop and fight them back, Arthur whipping out his sword and Merlin pushing the vicious sea of androids back with shockwaves of magic.

The whole thing is a mess.

The energy blade of Arthur’s sword slices through artificial skin and the wires beneath, the androids making ugly sounds as their code gets knocked off course - but they wouldn't be Pendragon make if all it took for them to go down is losing an arm.

Arthur knows where to hit, of course he does, knows that the main energy tubes connecting the QuanticHeart to the hard drive and the dozens of tiny CPUs that pass for the android’s brain run along its nape; in the TET-RYS models it's two, thick and bulky, and in the M-RYS models four, slim and flexible. Arthur knows it, which is why he aims for the neck if he can.

It's brutal and Arthur has to keep telling himself that these are computers, they aren't human - but then his eyes flicker to Merlin, right there at his side relentlessly felling down androids, and it's all Arthur can do to keep the bile flooding his mouth. There's the barest pinch to Merlin's lips, a tightness around his eyes and jaw, but he never hesitates, not once. His eyes keep straying towards Arthur, just as Arthur's do to him, small, frantic glances to make sure the other is alright. Merlin’s shaking is worse now, his eyes constantly flashing as he sends androids flying with a hard stare or the sweep of his hand. Sometimes Arthur hears him mutter a spell and the sound of his voice soothes some of Arthur’s flayed nerves, grounding him.

They manage to fight their way through storage room 7, Merlin raining down avalanches of pods and boxes, and Arthur hacking frantically at his side. Felled androids litter the floor, severed artificial limbs and heads with no light in their glass eyes strewn in-between; it’s a battlefield and Arthur wants nothing more than to get as far away from it as possible.

He spies the right door after a particularly exhausting back-and-forth with a group of androids that had tried to corner them, and lets himself feel a smidgeon of relief.

“This way!” Arthur calls out, reaching for Merlin and drawing him towards him as he takes down another TET-RYS model.

Nimueh's chip gets them into the next room and Arthur all but punches the scanner to make the door slide shut behind them. His fingers fly over the touchpad as he taps in an override to seal the door. There's a crunching sound as it closes on two arms and a leg, shuddering a little as it cuts through them, but then the door slides home and the lock turns red.

Arthur turns away and lets himself fall back against it, panting harshly. Merlin's arm brushes his as he does the same and Arthur can feel the tremors running through it. Instinctively, he folds his free arm around him, drawing him against his body, his hand moving without thinking to try and rub some warmth back into him even though he knows it won't work.

Merlin sighs, his teeth chattering a little as he presses his face into Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur allows himself a moment, waiting for his breathing to even out, still cradling Merlin against him, somehow unable to let him go just yet - and if the way Merlin’s fingers have curled into Arthur’s cardigan are any indication, then neither is he.

Behind them, the security androids are still squabbling against the door and Arthur knows that they won’t be safe here forever. It’s only a matter of time until whoever is in charge of their hunt at the moment finds a way to override Arthur’s hack and open the door.

Sighing, Arthur lets his eyes wander, taking in the storage room.

It’s strangely dark, none but the faint emergency lights having flickered on - probably something to do with Arthur’s interference with the lock. Only the paths are faintly illuminating, the cold light reflecting off the metal floor and making it look almost like chunks of ice beneath a starless sky.

Readily boxed androids line the walls, stacked in neat rows waiting to be picked up.

Turning his head a little further, Arthur’s eyes absently graze over the box closest to him, flittering over it unseeingly while his fingers trace the familiar line of Merlin’s spine. It’s the only excuse why it takes him so long to register what it is that he’s looking at.

The M-RYS model is still, and with its long lashes resting against pale skin, it almost looks as though its asleep. The unusual nature of the light has painted strange shadows along those perfect cheekbones and it’s all so achingly familiar that Arthur finds it hard to breathe all of a sudden.

When Arthur swallows and looks back up, the model is staring back at him.

Arthur jumps, a sharp, undignified noise forcing its way out of his throat and making Merlin’s head jerk up in alarm.

“Arthur, what-”

But Arthur has already pushed himself away from the door. He takes another step into the room, legs not quite steady, and whirls around on the spot, taking in box after box where suddenly a sea of flat, blue eyes is staring back at him.

Merlin sucks in a sharp breath and Arthur wraps his suddenly clammy fingers around Merlin’s arm, needing to feel him, to know that this, _this_ is Merlin. That he’s right there, next to him and real, not one of those blank looking things staring back at him with Merlin’s face.

Merlin presses in close to his side once more, craning his neck to take in the endless rows of boxes with the endless sea of unblinking eyes.

“Why are they switched on?” Merlin asks and his voice sounds hoarse, hushed in the silence of the room that is only interrupted by the faint, scratching sounds at the door.

“I don’t know,” Arthur rasps, his fingers digging even deeper, desperate to ground himself. “But they shouldn’t be.”

And it’s as if the M-RYS models have heard them, because suddenly they’re not just staring anymore, but blinking. Once. Arthur swivels his head, catches another one. Twice. He looks up. Three times.

Merlin’s sharp elbow digs into his ribs as he presses impossibly closer. Arthur welcomes the feel of it, never wants it to not be there.

One of the models raises its pale, long-fingered hand and with one, deft press against the sensors, the packaging folds down into nothing around it.

Before he knows he’d doing it, Arthur has shoved Merlin ahead of him.

“Run,” he says, just as the blank-faced copy of Merlin takes a step towards them. And its so wrong, so very wrong. “Run!” Arthur orders, shouts, as dozens upon dozens of pale hands lift to follow the example of the first model.

And Merlin does.

Arthur follows after him, aching to grab his hand and hold on tightly enough to forget what it feels like not to have it, but he knows it’d only slow them down, and so he doesn’t.

They dash towards the second door, the one that will lead to the private ascender, to the reason why they’re here in the first place, swarmed by these things with Merlin’s face but that could never be Merlin, because Merlin doesn’t look like this, not ever. And Merlin wouldn’t hurt Arthur, wouldn’t chase after him and reach for him like this, calculating and ruthless.

They almost make it, almost. Arthur can see the door, he can see it-

But the blue robed M-RYS androids ring them like an ominous wall made entirely out of stony faces and flat stares, forcing them to a stop.

Merlin’s back is warm against his own as they press together, and Arthur’s hand squeezes around the handle of his sword, his palm slick with sweat. He can’t do this, how is he supposed to do this? How is he supposed to raise his sword at something with Merlin’s face?

But if he doesn’t, he thinks frantically, watching the androids inch closer, if he doesn’t then they’ll get to the real Merlin, his Merlin, and Arthur can’t let that happen, no matter what.

The blade shoots out, the forcefield humming to life - and it makes everything so much creepier, the way that it’s still so quiet even though the wide room is stuffed so full with moving things. Arthur’s own, harsh breathing is still the loudest thing in the room, that and Merlin’s hitching breaths as shivers rush through his body like a series of endless earthquakes.

One of the M-RYS models is almost within reach now and Arthur swings at it, making it back off, but another one is already right there, it’s arms shooting out and towards Arthur’s neck.

Behind him, Merlin lets out a harsh sound and the android goes flying - and not just the one, but a whole sea of them, tumbling backwards and into each other. The circle around them widens and the wall to their left clears.

Merlin’s knees almost give as the next shudder makes his teeth clack together in a sound that has Arthur’s heart all but stopping in his chest.

He reels Merlin in, grabs for his arm and urges him back and against the wall.

“No more magic, Merlin,” Arthur days firmly.

He can feel Merlin’s glower, even though he can’t see it, his eyes fixed on the M-RYS models. Some of them are scrambling up off the floor, others have gone motionless. Either way, there’s still far too many between them and the door.

“I know you always think that you can boss me about,” Merlin rasps, voice thin but not without a hint of steel. “But you do know that I don’t actually have to do what you say?”

“I mean it, Merlin,” Arthur grits out, his grip on his sword tightening as he raises it higher. The next thing that comes too close to Merlin is going to make very intimate acquaintance with his blade, no matter what it looks like. “No more magic. You don’t know what it might do to you.”

When Merlin grabs him, sudden and with a surprising amount of strength - Arthur is too surprised to fight it. He wrenches Arthur around to face him, his fingers ten points of shaky pressure as they dig into Arthur’s shoulders.

“I know what it’ll do to me if something happens to you!” Merlin bursts out - and for all the times that Merlin has been angry with him, furious even, he’s never shouted at Arthur before. Not like this. It’s as if he’s about to fly apart. 

Arthur quickly glances around them, finding it safe enough to turn his full attention to Merlin for a moment.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he says gently, even though he doesn’t know that, especially since their current situation doesn’t look particularly promising.

But Merlin doesn’t look like he’s doubting Arthur’s words.

“I know,” he says and his voice isn’t shaking, rather eerily calm. “Because I won’t let it. I will protect you, Arthur.”

There’s something about Merlin in this moment, something wild and almost unhinged that makes the tiny hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand on end and dread pool in his stomach like lead.

“Merlin-”

But the shuffling of the androids has gotten closer once more - too close - and Arthur knows Merlin is about to defy him, even before gold flashes in his eyes. And for some strange, terrifying reason, Arthur thinks about Merlin’s hushed, scared voice in the dark, hears his words in his mind as he asks _Do you think I’m dying?_ and that _I feel like I’m falling apart. Disintegrating, somehow._

And Arthur hadn’t believed him, not until now.

He latches onto Merlin’s hand, snatching it from the air as it rises, trembling but determined. When their fingers touch, Arthur almost jerks back. 

The skin is warm, far too warm, and growing hotter by the second as if something is heating it up from the inside.

Arthur’s sword slips from his fingers, forgotten - everything forgotten now that Merlin seems to be burning up from the inside out. The blade retracts as the hilt clatters noisily to the floor, but Arthur doesn’t even spare it a glance.

He touches Merlin’s forehead, his cheek, fitting his palm to his burning skin. His hands are shaking, Arthur realises dumbly, _he’s_ shaking - frantic with fear. He wants to run his hands over Merlin’s skin, touch every inch of it, wants to find that it’s nothing, that everything is alright.

“What-” Arthur gasps, horrified and so, so scared. He leans in closer, instinctive, feels the heat radiating off Merlin’s body. “What’s happening?”

Merlin’s hand holds tightly to his own, the fingers of his other burning Arthur’s neck as they curl around his nape, tugging him in. The artificial blue of his irises is gone, burned away, and there’s only gold, hot and blinding and almost white in it’s intensity.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, golden-tinged tears spilling from his eyes as their foreheads touch - hot, so hot. “You know I love you.”

Gold shimmers beneath the surface, not just through Merlin’s eyes, but also, Arthur realises with growing horror, through his skin.

“No. _No!_ ” Arthur’s eyes are burning, blinded by gold, but he fights to keep them open. “Merlin, please.” He begs, helpless, _so fucking helpless_. “ _Please_.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin sobs, his skin almost unbearably hot now. Arthur only holds on tighter. “I’m so sorry, I don’t-” His voice breaks, his tears like scalding water as they drop onto Arthur’s hands. “I don’t want to leave you, Arthur.” And Arthur believes him, can see the look on Merlin’s face, as though his heart is being torn right out of him this very instant. “But you- you have to go now.”

“No!” Arthur digs his fingers into the back of Merlin’s neck, holding on with everything he has. “I’m not leaving you, I’m not-”

Merlin kisses him, his lips searing Arthur’s, his tongue like fire in Arthur’s mouth. It hurts, it _hurts_ , but Arthur clutches him closer, doesn’t let him go, doesn’t-

They’re wrenched apart, sudden and painful, and Arthur makes some noise he hardly recognises as his own - wild and savage in his desperation.

At first he thinks it’s Merlin, Merlin who’s retreating and putting all this hateful distance between them, but then Arthur realises that it’s _him_ , _he’s_ the one moving! He glances down, panicked, because he knows his legs aren’t walking, he can’t even _feel_ his legs right now.

But then Merlin raises his hand and Arthur knows.

“No!” he says again, yells it, flailing frantically to free himself from Merlin’s magical grip. “No, Merlin, please, you can’t- don’t you _dare_ do this to me-!”

“I promise you,” Merlin chokes out. “I _promise_ I’ll see you again.”

Arthur opens his mouth, to yell, to weep, to _something_ , but then it’s already too late.

He’s swept from the room, lands on the other side of the door, but can hardly see it slide shut in his face through his tears. The hold on him dissipates and Arthur launches himself forward, punching at the scanner and then, when it becomes clear that it won’t react to him, at the door itself.

He thinks he might be screaming, but he can’t be sure, hardly feels like himself at all, stripped down to his basest instincts and blind to anything but Merlin, Merlin framed in the small window of the door, Merlin who’s all but shining now.

It’s not a steady glow, but almost like ever changing threads coiling beneath his skin and Arthur wonders, torn between horror and some kind of hysteric derangement, if all of Merlin has turned golden, if, should Arthur take him apart - gently, always gently - remove his chest plate and look inside, look at his erratically beating QuanticHeart, if he’d find it nested there, blue as ever, or if instead it’ll shine like the sun. He wonders that if Merlin cuts himself now, if he will indeed bleed, but not red as Merlin had once told him he sometimes believes, but bleed gold, have it pour out of him until they’re both covered in it and Arthur will at least have the assurance that they would go together, that Merlin isn’t about to leave him behind.

Hundreds of blue-robed fingers inch closer, but Merlin just looks at them with white-hot-golden eyes, before bringing down the flat of his hand to the floor.

Gold flares so brightly that Arthur’s vision whites out, only to then be swarmed with black spots, the explosion akin to a star going supernova all within the confines of one room.

When he can finally see again, there’s nothing left to see. Arthur stares blankly at the complete and utter nothingness beyond the door, before his strength finally leaves him once and for all.

He sinks to his knees, the hard floor digging in harshly, but he hardly feels it.

The cold metal of the door soothes his burned palm and his forehead follows it as he lets his head fall forward. His eyes sting viciously and Arthur squeezes them shut, but the gold is still there, seared into his lids. He feels like he’s drowning in it, his lungs constricting painfully as he tries to keep breathing. The taste of salt mixes with the bitterness on his tongue and the metal against his face grows wet and slippery.

The gold behind his lids only burns brighter and Arthur wants to escape from it, but his limbs are like lead and he can’t move, he can’t-

 _Merlin_ , he thinks, desperate and so, so lost. _Merlin_.

*

Arthur doesn’t know when he moves again, when exactly he manages to convince his body to uncurl and his legs to hold his weight once more - but he knows he can’t stay here. The doors won’t hold forever and it’s only a matter of time until whoever is in charge sends more androids his way.

Merlin gave his life to save Arthur, to give him the chance to finally uncover the whole truth, and Arthur won’t dishonour his sacrifice by giving up now, after he’s finally made it here. Merlin would want him to finish it and so Arthur will - it’s the only thing he’s left to hold on to now.

His face puffy and disgusting, and his legs weak and shaking, Arthur stumbles towards the secret ascender and weakly waves Nimueh’s chip in the general direction of the scanner. The ground beneath him trembles, and for a moment Arthur writes it off as unsteadiness on his part, but then he remembers the dragon and wonders how much of the building above him is still standing at all. The fire won’t spread easily, not with so much metal involved, but dragon fire burns hot and Arthur wouldn’t put it past the dragon to actively lend a hand - and foot - in making sure HQ falls.

When the ascender’s door opens, Arthur very carefully doesn’t look at his reflection on the smooth metal and instead stares unseeingly as the numbers on the screen count down further and further. They’re red and Arthur tries to concentrate on that, thinks _red, red, red_ even while he keeps seeing gold, gold everywhere, swallowing him whole - swallowing _Merlin_ -

No. No he can’t think of that, not now, not yet. He can break down later, _later_ not now, not-

The ascender’s door slides open once more, no voice to tell him where exactly he’s landed, but Arthur doesn’t care. Nothing more to lose now.

He clenches his fingers, his grip on Nimueh’s bracelet so tight that the edges leave lines of pain against his palm. It feels good, feels like _something_ , so Arthur presses even harder, feels it dig just a little deeper.

The corridor he steps out into isn’t very long; bare and darker than what Arthur’s used to. There aren’t many doors to choose from and when Arthur sees the one labeled _Lab 1_ , he stops.

The door looks just like any other, inconspicuous and so very deceiving. One more step, Arthur thinks, and he’ll finally see, finally _know_.  

One more step. 

Just. 

One.

More.

The sound of things falling apart above reverberates throughout the building. And it’s only fitting, Arthur thinks bitterly, that things should end this way - that the place that has kept so many prisoner would now be torn apart by them. He raises Nimueh’s chip, his fingers as numb as the rest of him, and watches the scanner wake to life.

Green flashes across the screen and the door slides open, carrying with it a sound of finality. Arthur crosses the threshold, taking the final step even as the ground beneath him trembles.

*

The first thing he sees, are the fairies; tiny and pointy eared, their wings glowing but still - each one trapped in pods no bigger than a common jar and shelved carefully against the wall closest to the door. A glowing blue tube connects each pod to a small box and, when Arthur steps closer, he realises that they’re QuanticCores - the small ones used in communicators and small kitchen appliances. Each one is pulsating in sync with the fairies’ breathing.

And suddenly, Arthur understands.

Feeling his legs grow dangerously weak once more, Arthur grabs onto the closest shelf in a white-knuckled grip as he lets the realisation wash over him. Everything, all the bits and bits of information, are finally coming together, the pieces slotting one into the other to form - this. This is the true secret of Pendragon Enterprises - the formula of its success.

Arthur makes a sound, high-pitched and unhinged, something that masks as a laugh even as his vision blurs anew.

Nearly senseless with the force of the revelation, Arthur pries his fingers off the shelf and whirls around on unsteady feet to take in the rest of the room.

Most of the creatures he recognises from history and magic books, some he’s never seen before.

Pod upon pod lines the walls, their dimensions ranging from everything between beetle-sized to the size of a horse; a unicorn resting with its eyes closed and the horn on its forehead glowing as brightly as the tube that connects its pod to the QuanticCore destined for a new line of hover-cars. 

Every step makes him sicker, bitter bile coating the inside of his mouth and his stomach knotted so tightly that every breath hurts. He wants to single-handedly rip out each and every tube, but he doesn’t want to risk hurting the creatures. He doesn’t know how exactly the energy transfer works and disconnecting the tubes form the pods might very well kill them if done wrong.

Leaving them behind is hard - even though he silently promises to be back and free each and one of them - but he knows he has to keep going.

Walking through the next door isn’t any easier than the last and even though Arthur already suspects what he’ll find there, nothing can prepare him for the impact of actually seeing it.

The room is bigger, _much_ bigger. An enormous chart greets him right by the door, giving information about aisles and rows, on the number of pods - occupied and not - complete with the name of the sorcerer held captive there. 

There must be hundreds of them, Arthur thinks. So much more than the incomplete listing had him believe. 

All of them are thin and pale inside their pods, some curled up, some stretched out or twisted into strange positions. There are people of all ages; men and women, boys and girls. _Children_. One or two blink tiredly at him as he staggers past, their gazes dazed and unseeing, but most of them are sleeping - or what passes as sleep in this place.

Arthur’s steps falter and he has to lock his knees and find the closest patch of wall, sagging against it.

All these years his father had protected the patents to the QuanticBattery, guarding them like a lioness her cubs, when all along it had been _this_! There is no genius idea, no clever formula, _just this_. Magical beings hunted and captured, _enslaved_ , so that his father can hook them up in the bowels of Pendragon HQ and steal their energy; energy that he channels into QuanticCores and Hearts so he can sell their tech to the unthinking, _uncaring_ masses.

And Arthur doesn’t think he has it in him anymore, numb and hollow as he is - a gaping black hole in his chest where his heart had sat before it had been swallowed by gold alongside Merlin - but the sight of these people manages to break something inside him, something primal and savage, making all the anger suddenly spill over and burst out of him in a dizzying rush.

With a bellow of utter rage, Arthur turns and all but barrels into the wall behind him as he pounds his fist into it. First one, then the other. Again. And again.

His ring cuts into his flesh, clangs against the metal, but Arthur doesn’t feel the pain. He _wants_ it to hurt, it’d be easier that way, better - but there’s only fire, and gold, and Merlin’s face, Morgana’s - his _father’s_ -

There’s a sickening sound as his left hand connects with the wall one last time, sweet agony finally shooting up through his arm and making his eyes sting for a different reason - and Arthur welcomes that too, even though he’s convinced that there’s no tears left.

His throat feels shredded and his knuckles are bleeding, red smeared across the wall. Breathing harshly, horrible raspy sounds that claw itself from his throat, Arthur finally subsides - cradling his left hand to his chest.

He wonders, briefly, if he’s going insane - thinks that it might be a blessing, really. 

But just a little longer, just a little-

Arthur sucks in another deep, painful breath and wills himself to calm down. He can fall apart later, lose his mind _later_. Now he needs to focus, needs to get these people out of here. It’s what Merlin gave his life for, it’s what Arthur owes him - and he owes him _everything_ , but especially this.

He wipes his face, feels how hot it is under his palm, then looks down at his left hand. As expected, the knuckles are split, bleeding sluggishly. None of his fingers wants to stretch properly, the movement sending white-hot pain though his body, and the general angle of his middle finger looks awkward.

Cursing, Arthur presses his lips together and unceremoniously rips off a stripe of fabric from the hem of his tshirt and quickly wraps his hand with it - as tight as he can possibly manage with just one set of fingers. It helps, takes off the edge and makes his hand just that little bit more useful again.

Pushing himself away from the wall, Arthur squares his shoulders and sets his jaw into something firm and determined. He _will_ do this.

He picks a pod at random, needing to know what exactly he’s dealing with here and how best to proceed.

 Inside, a dark-haired girl lies curled in on herself, dressed only in a thin, white shift. The needle of an intravenous drip protrudes from the back of her left hand, the packet listing the details of the dosage and a list of ingredients on its slim screen. When Arthur steps closer, her eyes flutter open and look at him.

Arthur starts, the hand that had been reaching towards the pod suspended in mid-air for a moment. Slowly, carefully, he resumes his movement. The girl follows it with her eyes, her gaze intent. She seems more alert, somehow, different than the others - or at least the ones Arthur can see.

“Don’t worry,” Arthur says, barely recognising the hoarse rasp his voice has turned into. He has no idea if she can hear him, but he carries on nevertheless. “I’ll get you out of there.”

The girl’s dark eyes stay on him as Arthur takes a step to the side, around the pod, to reach the scanner but finds that there isn’t one. He looks for some other kind of access, a panel or something similar, but there’s nothing apart from smooth aluminum. Arthur presses his lips together, his fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against the metal as he quickly runs through his options.

He’s just about to start another round of inspection, when the sound of the door sliding open makes him still. The footsteps aren’t loud, but in the otherwise silent room they’re audible as they come closer, heading straight for Arthur. He whirls around, ready to fight - even if it’s to be with his bare hands - but instead of another android come to attack him, the lone figure is all too familiar.

“Gaius!” Arthur gasps. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Gaius’ expression is graver than Arthur has ever seen before. He’s not in his usual work attire and the lab coat draped over his shoulders seems like an afterthought. He looks old, Arthur thinks, old and very, very weary.

“I’ve come to help you,” Gaius says, crossing the last of the distance between them. The eery light of the pods makes him look pale, his skin papery. “We don’t have much time.”

As if on cue, the ground trembles once more, the few fluorescence overhead flickering ominously.

Instinctively, Arthur glances up. “The dragon-”

Gaius nods, grim. “I know,” he says. “I saw him.”

Arthur takes in the lack of surprise on Gaius’ face and of course, of _fucking_ course.

“You knew,” Arthur says flatly, no longer shocked, not really. Apparently everyone and their pet had known more than Arthur. “Of course you did.”

Gaius shakes his head, his shoulders slumped so deeply that it looks as though he’s carrying the entire weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I understand that you’re angry-” he starts, but Arthur can’t deal with this now.

“Oh no, I get it.” Arthur feels his face twist into something ugly, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards in a humourless sneer. His skin feels tight, his cheeks stretching uncomfortably beneath a layer of dried tears. “You must all think I’m a complete idiot. Must’ve been amusing to you, lying to my face - stupid Arthur who apparently can’t do anything except suck up to his father and follow his every order; _dumb_ Arthur for being trusting and naive, never even suspecting a thing-”

“You know that I’ve always loved you like a son, Arthur,” Gaius says, quiet and sad and so sincere that Arthur’s vocal cords refuse to work again. “There isn’t a day that’s passed that I didn’t wish I could tell you the truth. But Nimueh isn’t the only person your father bound with oaths. I’m not proud of my silence, but it did give me a chance to help some of these people.” He pauses, dipping his head. “You must understand, Arthur, that patience and quiet can be just as powerful a weapon.”

Arthur looks down and says nothing, his head swimming with half-formed thoughts and gold lingering at the edges of his vision. His eyes are stinging again - _still_ \- but his hands feel too heavy to lift them and wipe at the by now familiar feel of wetness spilling over.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, because he hasn’t said it since before the gold had taken him away, hasn’t said it even though it’s almost the only thing he can think about. “Merlin he-” his voice breaks, but Gaius doesn’t interrupt, just watches Arthur with sad eyes. But Arthur feels the words pushing against his lips, fighting to come out and so he tries again. “There was nothing I- he did it for me, Gaius, he did it for me and I couldn’t save him- I couldn’t-”

The words finally die in his throat and there’s more wetness and the taste of salt on his tongue.

“Now, now, my boy,” Gaius says gently, and when his arms wrap around Arthur it’s warm and familiar and Arthur hadn’t even known how much he’s shaking until now that there’s something steady against him. His arms are too heavy to be raised, hanging uselessly at Arthur’s sides, but he lets his head drop to the comforting place on Gaius’ shoulder and just lets it rest there for a moment. 

Gaius lets him, keeps quiet for a few heartbeats before he speaks again. “Don’t despair just yet. There’s something you have to know-” 

But then the building gives a violent lurch, cutting off Gaius’ words and making them both stumble. It’s enough to force Arthur’s thoughts back on track, to remind him that falling apart right now isn’t an option. 

Gaius glances upwards, looking deeply concerned. “We’re almost out of time,” he says, then fixes Arthur with an intent look, his hands cupping Arthur’s shoulders the way they used to when Arthur had been a child and Gaius had wanted to impart something important. “Arthur, listen to me. There’s only two ways to open the pods and only one which will open all of them at once - I have to access the operator in the main control room.”

Arthur frowns. “How-”

Gaius waves him off, already turning away and towards the pod where the dark-haired girl is watching them curiously. Arthur catches her eye and she looks back, unblinking. 

“Never you mind about that,” Gaius is saying, putting the flat of his palm against the pod. “There’s something you need to do.”

Arthur wants to ask _what_ , wants to say _hang on_ and _what’re you doing?_ , but Gaius doesn’t give him the opportunity. There’s a familiar flash of gold, a spark lighting Gaius’ eyes, and then the pod hisses sharply, the pressure releasing as it slides open. 

Arthur gapes. “You-”

Gaius ignores him. “Arthur, this is Freya,” he says, then gentles his voice as he bends down towards the girl - Freya. “We need your help. You know how to get to him, don’t you?”

“Get to who?” Arthur asks as Freya looks at them with wide, dark eyes, her gaze flickering from Gaius to Arthur and back, then nods.

“Emrys,” Gaius says as he gently unhooks Freya’s drip and quickly pricks her with a haemoscope, checking her readings. “They’re keeping him in a different place and we need to get to him as soon as possible.”

“Emrys - prophesy-Emrys?” Arthur asks, instinctively looking around as though Emrys might just appear before him - though of course Arthur wouldn’t recognise him even if he did. “The-most-powerful-sorcerer-to-ever-live-Emrys?”

Freya, finally free of the pod, stands on shaky legs.

“Yes,” Gaius says, looking grim. “Freya will guide you, but you have to hurry.”

Arthur wants to ask more questions, hates this feeling of being completely out of the loop. “Gaius-”

Gaius gives him a smile, tired but genuine and gently squeezes his arm. “Don’t worry, it’ll all make sense in a bit.”

Arthur watches him go, mind reeling, and wonders what not being shocked out of your wits feels like - because he certainly can’t remember it. 

He turns back to Freya, just as the ground shakes and she stumbles. Arthur catches her reflexively, putting a steading arm around her too-thin waist. She smells strongly of antiseptic and her hair has been cropped up to her chin the way Arthur’s seen in most of the other pods.

She looks up at the ceiling. “Kilgharrah,” she breathes and he realises she must mean the dragon.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that and Freya doesn’t elaborate. She frees herself from Arthur’s hold, but grips his arm for support, and starts leading him deeper into the room.

“This way.”

They pass pod after pod, but Freya doesn’t look at any of the people inside and Arthur bites his tongue to keep from asking questions, is dangerously close to uncaring. The crashes above them have increased and they both end up stumbling at least three more times, before Freya finally stops. Arthur looks up, but all he can see is a bare metal wall.

“There’s nothing here,” Arthur points out unnecessarily.

Freya looks unconcerned. She touches the wall, her fingers pale and shaking, but sure in their movements. The lines appear slowly, so faint that at first Arthur misses them completely, until they’re so deep that one of Freya’s thin fingers could’ve dipped inside. It’s a Triskilion, Arthur realises a moment later, the sign of the Old Religion.

The spiral under Freya’s palm begins to move and her eyes flash gold, quick and bright. 

He watches, wide-eyed, as the metal that had seemed so smooth before, slits in half, revealing a hidden door. A door like the ones Arthur knows only from history books, big and heavy complete with a piece of protruding metal that people used to call a door handle.

Freya presses it down and the door swings open, bringing with it a damp smell.

Arthur peers into the darkness, the faint light from the pods and the flickering florescence hardly enough to reveal the first step of a steep staircase. It looks new, Arthur realises with surprise, even though he hadn’t known anyone even used stairs anymore.

Next to him, Freya’s eyes light up, the golden glow even brighter in the darkness, and an orb of blue light appears in her palm.

“Be careful,” she says. “The stairs are slippery.”

Arthur nods and follows Freya into the dark.

*

The pale light of the orb hovering over Freya’s palm is hardly enough to light the path in front of them. In the strange light, Freya looks even paler than before and Arthur can see the fine sheen of sweat on her face, strands of dark hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks.

Eyeing her with concern, Arthur reaches out to close a hand around her trembling shoulder, afraid that her knees might buckle and send her falling down into darkness. She flinches a little at his touch, but her eyes are unafraid when they meet his over her shoulder.

“Let me go first,” Arthur says, his voice sounding loud in the silence.

Freya looks at him searchingly for a moment, then shifts closer to the wall to let Arthur pass. He does, mindful of the treacherous steps, and they resume their walk.

The walls, at least the parts Arthur can see in the dimness of the witchlight, are unlike the stairs - untouched by the modern world and instead rough and uneven. The stones are damp and the air is getting colder with every step downwards. Arthur wonders how far in the ground they are, but stops himself from considering it too deeply.

“What is this place?” Arthur asks, and his voice comes out hushed this time, afraid of having it echo back at him again.

“My people used to call it the Crystal Cave,” Freya says. “The Old Religion says that it’s the place where magic was founded.”

Arthur glances at Freya, but quickly returns his gaze to the path ahead when he almost slips on the next step.

“And this Emrys,” he asks, finally giving into the urge to ask some of the things that have been burning on his tongue. “Why keep him here? Why not with all the others?”

Freya is silent for a moment, their breathing and the faint sound of her bare feet mostly drowned out by the soles of Arthur’s shoes the only thing between them. Arthur almost thinks she won’t answer, but then she she lets out a breath and it’s turned cold enough for Arthur to see the faint outline of it in the air.

“They used to,” she says quietly. “But Emrys is powerful, more so than you can ever imagine. He managed to contact someone on the outside, slipping into her dreams and passing her messages. He was just a child, then, barely 10 years old. I don’t think he knew what he was doing.”

Dread pools in Arthur’s stomach like lead. He almost doesn’t dare ask the next question.

“So what happened?”

Freya sighs. “You know what happened,” she says, sorrow weighing heavily on her words. “Your father found out about it. He locked your sister up and declared her insane and Emrys, well. He was moved down here, away from everyone else.”

Arthur shudders. “So he’s been down there on his own? This entire time?”

Freya makes a humming sound. “Not exactly.”

Arthur glances back at her, briefly. Her hand is shaking more now, the orb in her hand smaller and having lost some of its brightness.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that he learned from his mistakes,” Freya says. “Putting him down here might’ve helped, initially, but Emrys has grown and so has his power. He’s been talking to all of us for years, that’s why I know where he is.” She frowns. “Though he’s been strangely quiet these past few months. They probably upped his dosage again - nothing can keep him under for to long, his body burns through it really quickly. But we we’ve all been concerned for him lately and then Mordred has to go an get himself caught with his little stunt.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Mordred?”

“Do you know him?” Freya asks, surprised.

Arthur swallows. “Someone…someone I care about very much mentioned that name to me once.”

Freya makes a soft sound, but before she can say anything else, the cave, for that is definitely what it is, is suddenly filled with bright light. Arthur gasps, cursing under his breath as his eyes protest harshly, watering wildly at the sudden change.

He blinks furiously, trying to clear his vision. Freya grasps for his arm and Arthur reaches for her in turn, seeking to ground himself in his blindness. 

When the spots have finally stopped dancing in front of his eyes, Arthur breathes a small sigh of relief and, still squinting, tries to take in his surroundings. The first thing Arthur sees, are the QuanticHearts - stacked so high Arthur can hardly see where they end and so wide that it almost looks as though the cave is made from them. Each one is meant for the M-RYS line - Arthur would recognise the model anywhere.

The thought makes something inside Arthur’s chest clench painfully, twisting so tightly that it’s suddenly hard to breathe. Filling his lungs with cold, damp air, Arthur forces himself to keep looking.

It takes him a moment to see them, hidden as they are between QuanticHearts and bits of metal, but once he spots them, they’re everywhere. Crystals. Sharp and glittering and far too many to count. At least now he knows how the cave has earned its name. Together, the pulsing blue glow of the QuanticHearts mixed with the lighter colours of the crystals has created an altogether chilling atmosphere. 

The fine hairs on the back of his neck rise and Arthur feels an icy shiver clawing its way up his spine.

 _All I could see was this light_ , Merlin’s voice suddenly says inside his head, the memory unbidden and sharp like the crystals hovering dangerously above his head. _And it was so cold, Arthur. So cold, I thought I was going to freeze. It was as if the ice was_ inside _me._

Arthur shudders, tries to shake the feeling off, but there’s something inside him that won’t let him calm, something clawing and screaming and Arthur thinks that this might be what insanity feels like; that madness has finally come to claim him.

“Arthur,” Freya says into the stillness, calling to him softly from somewhere deeper in the room. “Over here.”

Arthur tears himself away from the eery display and tries to follow the sound of her voice. There’s some murmuring - cursing? - and the sound of things clattering to the floor and Arthur picks up his pace, walks around another stack of QuanticHearts and finally sees Freya standing in-between loose tube-ends, the tubes themselves coiled like snakes on the floor.

There’s no pod, or at least not the same as the ones upstairs - more like a pod cut in half and then tipped over to create something like a bed, though there’s no bedding that Arthur can see, just the edge of a mattress usually used on biobeds in hospitals. The connection points where Freya has tugged out the tubes look like black holes and Arthur can’t help but shudder again.

Freya is leaning over the pod-like bed, both her and the strange construction obscuring Arthur’s vision of what has to be the famous Emrys.

All Arthur can see at the moment is the corner of the same white shift all the other sorcerers are wearing and be silently horrified that he seems to be wearing nothing else, despite the inhumane temperature down here. Arthur’s only been here a few minutes and already the cold dampness has found a way beneath his clothes and straight under his skin to his bones. It’s a miracle this Emrys hasn’t frozen to death yet in this godforsaken place. Though if what everyone says is true and this is indeed the most powerful sorcerer of all time, then it probably takes a lot more to kill him than a draughty cave.

Warily, Arthur makes his way over to Freya’s side, not really sure what to expect. Freya steps aside, making some room for him, and finally frees Arthur’s view of the bed.

But nothing, nothing at all could’ve prepared Arthur for who it is he sees there.

The world abruptly swims out of focus, black flooding in from the corner of his eyes - black is good, Arthur thinks dazedly, black isn’t gold, it isn’t-

His knees give and he isn’t sure where his stomach is exactly, it might have dropped somewhere, or is it him that’s dropping? Freya grips his arm, is saying something, but Arthur can’t hear her. Can’t hear anything. He can only stare, stare at the face before him that he thought he’d never see again.

“Merlin,” Arthur gasps, sounding like a man dying - or rather, like a man who’d been about to drown and had finally found his way to the surface once more. “ _Merlin_.”

And nothing, not even Freya’s surprisingly strong grip on his arms can keep Arthur from launching forward. He crashes into the pod-bed, the impact with the metal edge so forceful that it knocks the last of his breath from him. It digs in harshly, rubs his skin raw beneath his clothes but Arthur doesn’t care. _He_ _doesn’t care_ because nothing else matters, nothing but this.

Merlin’s cheeks are ice-cold beneath Arthur’s palms as Arthur cups them between his hands, wills them to warm at his touch. Arthur bows his head, dragging in several shuddering breaths, his nose brushing the spot on Merlin’s neck that Arthur has kissed so many times before. He presses into it, unthinking.

The smell of antiseptic underlined with the persistent dampness of the cave clings to Merlin. And it’s strange and familiar all at once, the skin colder but even softer than Arthur remembers, and when he gives in and brushes the most fleeting of caresses against Merlin’s throat, he can feel the unmistakable beat of a steady pulse beneath his lips.

“ _Mer_ lin, you _idiot_ ,” Arthur all but sobs, the words muffled by Merlin’s skin and Arthur’s hands scrabbling restlessly over Merlin’s still form; his chest, his arms, his shoulders, unable to settle as they try and touch everything at once.

He wants to say something else, wants to press his lips to every inch of ice-cold skin and warm it with his mouth, wants to just collapse right here next to Merlin and lie there with him and simply hold him and never let go.

“Arthur,” Freya says and it sounds as if she’s been repeating it for some time.

Arthur tries to answer, but he can’t make himself let go, not yet, _not yet_ -

The sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs has both Arthur and Freya’s heads jerk up in alarm.

Instinctively, Arthur covers Merlin’s body with his own, because this time, _this time_ , he won’t fail. This time, he’ll protect Merlin with everything he has and until his very last breath, if necessary. Never again, Arthur thinks wildly, his fingers digging into the edge of that blasted bed as gold threatens to swallow him anew. _Never again._

Next to him, Freya’s gaze is alert, but Arthur can see that she’s shaking with exhaustion, her brow slick with sweat despite the cold and her breathing laboured from exertion. As soon as the person comes into view, however, Freya lets out a relieved sound and a smile spreads across her face, bright and earnest. It takes years off her, making her seem suddenly younger and more beautiful.

“Mordred,” she breathes.

“Freya.”

Mordred, blue eyed and black haired and whose age it is impossible for Arthur to determine, looks just as he’d done on the security footage, if a little thinner and wearing one of those blasted shifts as well. He returns Freya’s smile and they meet somewhere in the middle, Freya throwing her arms around him and Mordred lifting her clean off her feet as he hugs her close.

“We need to go,” Mordred says as he draws back. “I just met Gaius, he’s released everyone - told me where to find you, but Kilgharrah is making quite the scene up there and I don’t think the building can take much more.”

Relieved at hearing Gaius seems to be safe for now, Arthur back towards Merlin, taking in his shocking thinness and the way his cheekbones looks ready to cut through his skin with how sharply they stand out. Swallowing, Arthur forces himself to focus, leans over to study the drip on one side, then looks at the small display of the other bag hanging next to it. Arthur reads the dosages and list of ingredients, recognising most of them as names from the list of sedatives he’d found that time on Gaius’ holo-desk.

Thinking quickly, Arthur reaches for Merlin’s arm and gently pulls out the needle. He flings it to the floor, disgusted, then brings his fingers back to Merlin’s face, gently patting his cheek.

“They increased his dosage just a few days ago,” Mordred says as he steps up to the pod-bed from the other side, one arm supporting an increasingly shaky Freya. “I don’t think he’ll wake on his own any time soon.”

Arthur looks up. “So what do we do?”

Mordred leans in closer, studying Merlin’s face intently for a moment, before pressing the palm of his free hand to Merlin’s forehead. Mordred’s eyes flash gold and he sags forward a little. Freya steadies him shakily.

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur mutters, stroking his cheek. “Wake up.” 

Merlin doesn’t stir.

“Are you sure it worked?” Arthur asks Mordred, voice sharp and commanding, his nerves worn thin and barely holding together as it is. 

Mordred glares at him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Arthur looks back at Merlin, helplessly. For lack of anything else to do, Arthur leans down and presses their foreheads together, feeling Merlin’s clammy skin against his own. Arthur sighs, cradling the too-sharp angles of Merlin’s jaw.

“Please,” he whispers, his hot breath a white cloud between their mouths.

When Merlin’s lids flutter a moment later, it’s the most beautiful thing Arthur has ever seen. He draws back just as Merlin’s eyes blink open, blue eyes hazy with confusion and the lingering effects of the sedatives. He squints at the ceiling and blinks again.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks carefully.

Merlin’s head turns, just a little, just enough for his eyes to lock with Arthur’s. And for a brief, horrible moment, they lack any form of recognition and Arthur thinks that the black hole in his chest is back, that all his hope had been for nothing, that this Merlin isn’t _his_ Merlin at all, just the man the M-RYS line had been designed after and powered by.

But then Merlin blinks again, and one of his hands moves, trembling, to fit against Arthur’s cheek. The touch is soft and weak, barely even there, but so achingly familiar that Arthur feels his eyes burn with it.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, voiceless after so long in the cold and with his vocal cords unused.

Arthur covers the hand with his own and presses it against his skin, finally, finally feeling the icy fingers warming beneath his own.

“I promised that you’d see me again,” Merlin says, then coughs harshly.

Arthur helps him sit up, cradling him close and rubbing his back. His voice is frightfully unsteady when he answers, breathing the words against Merlin’s temple as he closes his eyes for a moment. “You’re such an idiot.”

Merlin leans agains him, his breath warm against Arthur’s neck. “Your idiot, though.” He cards his trembling fingers through Arthur’s hair and Arthur desperately clings to the familiarity of it, feels Merlin’s chapped lips against his jaw, lingering there for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur holds him tightly, trying his best not to crush Merlin’s frail body against his chest, but barely able to rein himself in. “You’d better be,” he rasps, head ducking to hide in the familiar slope of Merlin’s beautiful neck. “And don’t you ever dare do something like this to me again.”

Merlin clings to him, every bit as desperate as Arthur feels. “I won’t, I promise.”

“As touching as this is,” Mordred suddenly cuts in, pointedly. “Can you maybe do it later? I’d like to get out of here before we’re buried alive.”

Drawing back is physically painful and Arthur barely manages far enough to throw Mordred a glare. He swallows down a sharp retort and instead turns his attention back to Merlin, wrapping a steadying arm around him as he all but lifts him from the pod-bed. He weighs fightingly little.

Merlin slumps into him, more sweat building on his brow as he tries to find his footing. When he looks up a moment later, however, his gaze is steady despite the glassy sheen of fever and his voice is strong despite its near voicelessness.

“Let’s go.”

*

Beyond the door is pure chaos. With the pods open, people are streaming towards the exit from all sides. Most of them are weak and shaking, dragging along fellow sorcerers that are even weaker and shakier, their white shifts making them look like a sea of ghosts.

Panic hangs thickly in the air and the combined sound of hundreds of bare feet accompanied by frantic calls torn from dry, unused throats is enough to blend into a cacophony. Around them, the building shakes again. Pods are tumbling over left and right, one hitting the other and creating wide stretches of domino effects, turning them into dangerous missiles rolling across the floor. 

Arthur’s arm tightens convulsively around Merlin’s waist, all but crushing him to his body, as if that alone is enough to keep him safe. Merlin touches his cheek, brief and gentle, but Arthur takes it for the reassurance it is and takes a deep breath, forcing himself to loosen his grip enough for Merlin to slip free. They wouldn’t be quick enough if they stayed plastered together.

Merlin looks up, face pinched in concern. Above them, the ceiling has started to crumple.

“It’s not going to hold for much longer,” he says. “We have to move quickly.”

“This way,” Mordred says unnecessarily, raising his voice to be heard.

They make for the door and are immediately swallowed up by the crowd. People are pressing together and into each other, urging whoever is in front to go faster. Someone stumbles into him, a young boy, and Arthur steadies him quickly before pushing him in front of him. Immediately, a pale hand shoots out to grab the boy’s arm and help him along.

Somewhere above, there’s a crashing sound and small bits of ceiling are suddenly raining down, spraying them with dust and making Arthur cough. Eyes stinging, he blinks furiously and reaches out blindly for Merlin’s hand.

Familiar fingers tangle with his own, but for once, the palm that presses against his is as slick with sweat as his own. Arthur glances sideways and finds Merlin right there and even with his vision blurred by tears and the feeling as though the world is ending around them, the sight instantly eases something in Arthur’s chest.

Suddenly, an almighty rumble thunders through the room.

All around them, heads are snapping up and Arthur almost refuses to look, doesn’t want to know what has everyone gasping and paling even further. But then it sounds again and just for a moment, it’s as if everything has frozen.

Swallowing, Arthur looks up.

Above them, the ceiling has finally, inevitably, given beneath the strain of a raging dragon and the crack that has appeared, almost exactly through the centre, is so deep Arthur’s surprised they can’t see the room above through it.

This can’t be it, Arthur thinks desperately. Not after all they’ve been through, not after everything. Not like this.

The first chunk, as big as a small house, is rapidly separating from the rest and Arthur can see it falling seconds before it actually does. There’s no escaping it, not this time, and Arthur wants to turn away, but can’t. He squeezes Merlin’s hand, hard and desperate and tight enough to hurt them both, for his ring to dig in deeply, tattooing the intricate design in a series of red lines across both their skins.

Merlin presses in close to Arthur’s side, his body warm but trembling. He whispers something that sounds like words, but they run together in a way that turns them into intelligible gibberish and Arthur has heard him use enough spells to recognise it as such.

He wants to ask _what_ , wants to turn towards Merlin and look into his eyes, for him to be the last thing Arthur sees before they die, but then they’re not dying, because the piece of concrete that was just about to squeeze their life from them has suddenly stopped falling.

It wobbles precariously, suspended right above their heads, and Arthur watches Merlin’s arm shoot up from the corner of his eyes, his fingers splayed wide as he keeps the ceiling together. Because Arthur knows, _knows_ that its him, can feel the magic sizzling in the air around them and tingling across every inch of his skin, can feel it burning from Merlin’s palm where it’s still pressed against his own.

And when he finally manages to unfreeze himself enough to turn his head, he knows it’s true from the way Merlin’s eyes have turned to molten gold, not a trace of blue left anywhere.

The others must’ve noticed it, too, because instead of tense panic, the air is suddenly filled with hushed voices repeating the same thing, the same name, over and over, awe dripping from each syllable.

_Emrys._

“Mordred, Freya,” Merlin says, his voice cutting through the sudden hush. It’s strained, a tremble clinging to the very edges of his tone, but his face his firm, determined and his eyes never leave the ceiling as he goes on. “Get them out of here. I’ll try and hold it long enough for everyone to clear the building, but you have to hurry. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”

“We’ll get them out,” Mordred says, his hand brushing Merlin’s arm in reassurance.

“Be careful, Merlin, alright?” Freya says, then presses a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you outside.”

And just like that, the crowd is once more in motion, this time led by Freya and Mordred, who everyone seems to suddenly look to for guidance.

“Arthur,” Merlin says shakily and Arthur turns his back to the exit and the people rushing towards safety.

“Don’t you dare ask me to leave you,” Arthur says tightly.

Merlin’s eyes stay fixed, but his lips twitch, the corners lifting into a trembling smile.

“I’m not,” he says softly. “I keep my promises, remember? Just-” He takes a shaky breath.

“What?” Arthur murmurs. “Tell me what you need.”

“Just hold on to me. Please,” Merlin says, and it’s clear that the strain is taking its toll, the words nothing but harsh bursts of breath as his body starts to shake with the amount of magic cursing through. “Hold me and don’t let go.”

And there’s no need for explanations, because Arthur knows exactly what he has to do. He lets go of Merlin’s hand, leaving it free to join the other already in the air, and steps in close, close, closer. His body melds to Merlin’s back, his arms closing around him and pressing them flush together.

He buries his nose in Merlin’s hair, right there, behind his ear where Arthur’s fingers have so often lingered, so that when he breathes, his lungs will fill with nothing but Merlin. His palm finds the sure beat of Merlin’s heart, this one real but still somehow the same, and he doesn’t know if this is the end, but if it is, it would be peaceful.

“Never.”

*

It’s not the end.

Merlin is shaking and sweating, both of them drenched with it, but Merlin’s magic holds and so does the building.

Arthur can taste salt every time he licks his lips and his arms and legs are stiff from being locked into the same position for so long, but he doesn’t move, not once. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been like this when Merlin gives a small start, the first break in the endless bouts of shaking and straining, and Arthur opens his eyes.

“They’ve made it out,” Merlin says, words pressed out past a trembling jaw.

Arthur thinks quickly, running through their options.

“If you can hold it long enough to get us to the next floor, we can get out through one of the emergency exits. There’s a footpath leading round the back and up. Maybe the emergency ascender is even still working.”

Merlin sucks in an audible breath and gives a jerky nod.

“Let’s do it.”

Arthur gives Merlin one last squeeze, then lets him go. Immediately, a few chunks crash to the floor around them, but Merlin’s hand finds Arthur’s, hot and slick with sweat just like the rest of them, and by the time one of the pieces falls close enough to hit them, they’re already cocooned in a sphere of gold.

More and more debris starts raining down around them, but the shield holds firm even as they pick up speed.

The next room, the one which had been filled with magical creatures just a while ago, is now as empty as all the other pods. Arthur feels a little light-headed with relief at the knowledge that they’ve been saved as well. He tugs at Merlin’s hand, wanting to urge them along, but Merlin balks.

“Wait,” he says, breathless and looking sick with strain and exhaustion. “There’s something we have to get before we go.”

“You’re joking,” Arthur says flatly.

Merlin gives him a smile, and even through the trembling and the fact that he looks like death, it still manages to be sheepish.

“It won’t take long,” he says, tugging Arthur to the right and off the direct path to the door.

Thankfully, it indeed doesn’t take long and just a few minutes later, they’re back on track.

“Here,” Merlin says, breathing harshly, and passes Arthur a kind of pointy ball. “Take this, I need my hand free.”

Arthur accepts it reluctantly, grimacing when it turns out to not only be heavy, but hot as well.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, tucking the ball into the crook of his elbow as they rush through crumbling corridors. The ball makes his skin tingle a little, but that might have just been Merlin’s magic.

“It’s a dragon egg.”

“A dragon-” Arthur almost drops it in shock. “ _Merlin!_ ”

Merlin throws him a smile and lets Arthur tug him through a door, then another.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Is that what you call it?” Arthur snaps. “Like the grown up version? Does he seem particularly safe to you?”

A big chunk of wall crashes down and shatters against the shield. Merlin staggers, would’ve gone down on his knees if Arthur hadn’t steadied him.

“Alright?” Arthur asks, holding him maybe a little too tightly.

Merlin nods and they scramble back into motion.

“Kilgharrah’s just upset,” he says, still talking despite his voice all but failing him. “He isn’t usually like this.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, exasperated. “You can tell me all about it when we aren’t about to be buried beneath a building.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything after that.

*

They make it out, but barely.

As soon as they clear the danger area, the shield around them collapses and with it, so does Merlin. Arthur’s arms shoot out to catch him and they both go down in an awkward heap of limbs. Arthur manoeuvres the egg between them and Merlin hugs it to his chest with trembling arms. He looks very close to passing out.

“Hey,” Arthur says, and it comes out shaky and frightened. “Merlin, hey. Stay with me.”

Merlin smiles and one of his hands leaves the egg and finds Arthur’s cheek. Arthur catches it and holds it there.

“‘M okay,” he murmurs, eyes heavy and clouded. “Just exhausted.”

“Alright,” Arthur mutters, senseless and barely audible. He presses his lips to Merlin’s knuckles, then the lines of his palm. “Alright.”

Merlin’s fingers curl, pressing gently to his jaw. “Kiss me.”

And Arthur does, leaning down to fit their mouths together. He intends it to be chaste and gentle, but Merlin tilts his face upwards and laps a hot, feverish tongue against Arthur’s bottom lip and that’s all it takes for it to become deep and desperate and messy.

“I was so scared,” Arthur whispers harshly between kisses. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I know.” Merlin bites at his lip, then sucks it into his mouth, his fingers tangling in Arthur’s hair and tugging him close. “I know, I’m sorry.” Arthur kisses him hard, then buries his face in Merlin’s neck, keeps on kissing him there, unable to stop. Merlin holds onto him, whispers his name, says _Arthur, I’m so sorry_.

Arthur shakes his head, but doesn’t raise it, wishes that he’d never have to move again. His words are muffled, almost inaudible, when he says that he’s-

“-sorry, too.”

And Merlin strokes his hair and kisses his jaw, the egg pressing uncomfortably against Arthur’s chest, squashed between them. 

“For what?” Merlin asks softly.

Arthur swallows, his throat so raw he’s surprised he manages to speak at all after everything. “All of this-”

Merlin’s grip on him tightens. “Arthur, no,” he says, sounding pained. “No, no, no. This isn’t your fault, don’t even go there. You didn’t know.”

Arthur does draw back now, thinks about wiping his face, but not wanting to let go of Merlin. 

“I should’ve realised it sooner,” he says, looking at a particularly angry stain on Merlin’s no longer white shift. “I should’ve-”

Merlin’s finger presses against his lips, stopping the desperate flow of words, then he kisses Arthur again.

“Stop that,” he says, shaping the words against Arthur’s mouth. “You were amazing, Arthur. You saved us all.”

Arthur snorts, or maybe it’s a sob. He presses his face back into Merlin’s neck, drawn there like a magnet.

“Hardly. I couldn’t have done anything without you.”

Merlin sighs, breath warm against Arthur’s shoulder. “Then it’s a good thing that you don’t have to.”

Arthur makes a soft, unidentifiable sound, then kisses Merlin again, and again. He doesn’t ever want to stop, thinks he might die if he does - but they can’t stay here. They’ve already wasted too much time.

“What happens now?” he asks, when he’s finally managed to detach himself enough to speak.

“I need to find Mordred and Freya,” Merlin murmurs, carding gentle fingers through Arthur’s hair. “And then I need to collect Kilgharrah.”

Arthur doesn’t want to, but he asks anyway. “And then?”

Merlin is frowning, an unhappy expression that makes his too-thin face look even more drawn.

“Then I’ll take them home.” His grip on Arthur tightens abruptly, as if he’s afraid Arthur will disappear right from beneath his touch. “But I’ll only be gone for a while. I promise I’ll come back for you. I’d take you right now-”

But Arthur shakes his head, even though his throat feels almost tight enough to suffocate him and he wants nothing more than to say _yes, yes please take me with you, don’t leave me again_.

“I can’t just take off like this,” he says. “If all of this blows up, there needs to be a representative and my father-” He breaks off, because to be honest, he has absolutely no idea what will happen now. 

But knowing the vultures, it’ll all be out already and when his father is taken into custody, his responsibilities fall to Arthur. All their employees, their workers in the industrial district- Arthur can’t just abandon them all like this.

Merlin pulls him close, his hand warm and sure against the nape of Arthur’s neck. Their foreheads meet and Arthur takes a shaky breath.

“No matter what happens, I’ll come back for you,” Merlin whispers, swears it.

“Good,” Arthur says, but what he means is _I’ll be waiting for you._

Merlin understands him anyway.

*

They’re several floors beneath the main part of Pendragon HQ, not quite Below, but close enough. Even all the way down here, the air is thick with smoke and when Arthur looks up, it looks as if the sky is burning.

Several footpaths above them are gone, destroyed in the fight with the dragon. There’re fires burning everywhere.

Voices are shouting, but Arthur can’t see who they belong to. They blend into the distant wailing of sirens and, he realises a moment later, the unmistakable sound of phasers being fired. A shadow falls across them and Arthur looks up, barely catching the shape of the dragon as it sweeps past above them.

But Arthur would’ve recognised it anywhere, its outline carved into Arthur’s mind after seeing it almost every day of his life.

He shifts a little, tightening his grip on Merlin and resting him more comfortably in his arms. After having taken one look at his pale face and the way he’d been shaking - still is - Arthur had unceremoniously lifted him off the ground, the dragon egg nestled safely between them. Merlin had protested only a little, before simply curling into Arthur and around the egg and pressing his nose to Arthur’s throat.

Somewhere behind them, the last standing remains of Pendragon HQ are burning, but Arthur doesn’t look back, not once. All he wants is to carry Merlin as far away as possible from this place, wants to have him right here, cradled safely in Arthur’s arms.

With every step he takes, every step away, his breathing comes a little easier. Unthinkingly, he bend his head to press his lips to Merlin’s clammy forehead, letting them linger there for just a moment.

Merlin quietly mutters directions and Arthur does as instructed, following along one footpath, then another. When he asks how Merlin knows where to go, Merlin grins at him and taps a shaky finger to his temple.

“I’m talking to Mordred.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t inquire further.

They reach a dead end, then, in the form of the footpath simply ending, a jagged edge and yawning space the only thing left from where it had broken off. Arthur eyes it wearily, but Merlin doesn’t tell him to turn around, and so he doesn’t.

Not a moment later, something big and black and definitely winged appears in the distance. The creature’s outline is vague at best, the smoke blurring the air, melting with the city lights and making everything swim together. For a moment, Arthur almost thinks that it’s the dragon, but then immediately dismisses the idea. It’s hardly big enough and with every beat of its wings that brings it closer, Arthur can see that the shape is not that of a reptile at all.

The beast brings with it a rush of air that tugs at Arthur’s hair and is heavy with acrid smoke, constricting his lungs into several coughs and making his eyes sting.

“It’s a panther,” Arthur says, aghast, his eyes wide despite having teared up once more.

And it is, only that it’s a _very big_ panther, at least twice the size of a normal one, and that its spouting two leathery wings, the span of which is rather impressive.

“Bastet,” Merlin corrects.

The panther - bastet - shakes its head from side to side, clearly irritated by the biting scent of the smoke lingering in the air, and snorts. Atop its back, Mordred gives its flank a gentle pat as if to soothe it. The bastet’s teeth glint ominously as they catch the light.

“You alright?” Mordred asks and there’s a small smile tugging at his lips as he lifts his eyebrow at the way Arthur is still holding Merlin.

“Still in once piece, as you can see,” Arthur says, raising his chin just a little in defiance.

Merlin rolls his eyes at them, but when he shifts the egg into a better grip and touches Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur gently sets him down, back onto his own two feet. Arthur watches him carefully and Merlin isn’t exactly steady, but he remains upright just the same.

The bastet bends its head and nudges at Merlin’s cheek. It makes Arthur a little ill, seeing it, but Merlin laughs and gives its nose a rub.

“Hello, Freya,” he says.

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Freya?” he asks, incredulous. “You mean-”

“Yes.” Mordred’s lips stretch into the same smug smile he always seems to wear when he thinks Arthur’s being particularly stupid.

Arthur glares at him, but doesn’t say anything. He eyes the bastet, trying to reconcile the image with the fragile Freya and failing miserably.

“Up there it’s swarming with police,” Mordred says, no trace of the smile left and instead there’s a small pinch of worry between his eyes. “We’d best get Kilgharrah and go. Everyone else already made it out.”

Arthur frowns, thinking about hundreds of weakened sorcerers stumbling about in nothing but thin shifts. “Will they be alright?”

Mordred nods. “They don’t trust anyone up here, but the people from Below will help. There’s some safe houses there where they can rest before making their way back north. And we’ll be back with some rescue parties once we’ve told everyone back home what happened - if they don’t already know about it, that is.”

“Safe houses?” Arthur asks, not sure he’s following.

Mordred gives him an almost pitying look. “You upper people really don’t know anything.”

Arthur clenches his jaw, but Merlin gives them both a quelling look. “Stop it, you two. We don’t have time for this.”

Mordred raises his hands and Arthur bits back a retort. 

Merlin raises his eyebrows at them, then turns away and Arthur watches as he walks towards the edge, the egg still clutched securely to his chest. He expects anything, really, from some form of magic pyrotechnics to another silent streak of telepathic communication. What Arthur doesn’t expect, is Merlin throwing his head back and shouting towards the sky.

“Kilgharrah!” His voice rings out, a little deeper than Arthur is used to, but other than that not particularly different.

At first, nothing at all happens and Arthur thinks that maybe nothing _will_ , but the sudden beating of wings makes that thought disappear. Up close and with his wings spread, the dragon is huge, bigger than Arthur ever perceived him in all the years frozen still in the entrance hall’s centre.

Kilgharrah lands on the roof of the footpath aligned to the one they’re all standing on, making the metal bend and creak ominously. He half-folds his wings, his eyes a glowing gold as he bends his head to peer down at Merlin.

“I see your destiny has begun, young warlock,” he says in a booming voice and Arthur can’t decide if he’s genuine, patronising, or something different entirely. “And you have found that which makes you whole.”

Merlin glances at Arthur with a smile, before turning back to Kilgharrah once more.

“I have,” he says. “But now we have to go. You’ve had your fun.”

The dragon snorts, sparks shooting from his nostrils as he gives a haughty tilt of his head.

“Fun?” Kilgharrah says indignantly.

Merlin waves him off and Arthur realises with a burst of affection that it looks very much like the gesture Arthur always makes when he gets impatient.

“You can tell me off on the way,” Merlin says. “Will you take me?”

Kilgharrah blinks and Arthur has no idea how he manages to make it look so imperial and arrogant.

“I suppose,” he says magnanimously. “Your father will only send me back should I return without you.”

Merlin laughs and Arthur knows he’s clearly missed the joke.

In the distance, it sounds as if the sirens have gotten louder and when Arthur squints just right, he thinks he can see the evil red dots of several jellyfish gleaming through the foggy darkness. The others must see it as well, for the air instantly shifts into something tense and urgent.

“Go ahead,” Merlin says to Mordred and Freya-the-bastet. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Mordred gives Arthur a nod. 

“Take care, Arthur,” he says and Arthur can tell he means it. “I’ll see you again, soon.”

“You, too,” Arthur says and when Freya opens her wings and jumps into the air, Arthur raises a hand in farewell.

When he looks back at Merlin, he finds him standing right there, barefoot and shivering in only his white shift, looking even paler and more fragile than before. Arthur steps closer, instinctively reaching out to rub some warmth into Merlin’s arms - knowing that this time it’ll actually make a difference. Arthur notes again how very thin Merlin feels beneath his hands and it makes something in Arthur’s chest clench painfully. He silently promises that he’s going to spend the rest of his days feeding Merlin only his favourite things, and giver him anything he could ever want.

Merlin leans into him, his lips brushing Arthur’s jaw, then his cheek.

“Be careful while I’m away,” he says, soft and close, his lips brushing Arthur’s before meeting them in a proper kiss.

Arthur kisses him, wet and open, then draws back to press another, smaller kiss to his mouth. He kisses one of Merlin’s prominent cheekbones, then the soft skin right beneath an eye and finally his brow.

“Get some rest,” he murmurs. “Get well. And tell Morgana- Tell her I’ll see her soon. And that I’m sorry.”

Merlin nuzzles him, then kisses him again, the contact no more than a whisper-soft brush of lips.

“I will.” He cups Arthur’s cheek, the gesture warm and familiar, kisses him again, before visibly pulling himself together and stepping back. “I have to go.”

“I know,” Arthur says, his voice coming out choked and heavy with sadness.

Merlin looks just like Arthur feels; as though someone has asked him to rip out his heart, leave it behind and go on without it. His eyes are overly bright and he blinks, then blinks again. Arthur swears that if Merlin starts crying, Arthur will swing himself onto the back of that dragon right alongside him and damn the consequences.

“I’ll be back when the rain has stopped,” Merlin says, tearing Arthur from his thoughts.

Arthur frowns. “What rain?”

But the first drop suddenly hits him, then another. And another.

Merlin smiles at him, pained and watery, but genuine.

“This one,” he says, laughing a little at what no doubt must be a comically confused expression on Arthur’s face.

“Did you just-?”

Merlin laughs again, but it sounds a little bit more like a sob now, and wipes at his eyes. Arthur isn’t quite sure if it’s raindrops he’s banishing, or if his eyes have indeed finally spilled over. But he isn’t sure about the wetness on his own face, either, so that’s okay.

“Yeah,” Merlin says. He looks as though he wants to reach for Arthur again, but then doesn’t. Simply says, “Soon.”

Arthur nods and sucks in a shuddering breath, watching Merlin finally turn towards Kilgharrah, whose wings are now unfolded and working up a momentum. Kilgharrah takes to the air and Merlin steps to the ragged edge of the broken footpath, the egg nested securely against his chest. He’s almost at the edge, when Arthur calls after him.

“Wait!”

Merlin stops and looks back. He looks ready to change his mind at just one more word, but Arthur doesn’t ask that of him. Instead, he shrugs off his battered cardigan. The red fabric is streaked with dirt and debris and there’s a rip along one of the elbows, but it’s still better than nothing. He drapes it around Merlin’s shoulders.

“Here,” he says. “Take this.”

Merlin smiles at him.

“I’ll be wedged between a dragon and a dragon egg,” he says, protests even as he slips first one, then the other arm through the sleeves. “I wouldn’t have been cold.”

Arthur reaches for the zip and does it up with practiced ease.

“Take it anyway.”

Arthur doesn’t kiss Merlin again, knows that if he does, he won’t be able to stop. Instead, he takes a step back, then another, each bit of distance like a giant fist squeezing at his heart.

Merlin raises his hand in a wave and Arthur echoes him, trying his best to smile but knowing he’s mostly failing.

And then Merlin steps off the path and out of sight. A moment later, Kilgharrah shoots into the air, his powerful wings carrying them up, up, up, until Arthur can barely make out the dragon’s shape any longer. Phaser fire lights up the night, but it doesn’t even come close, and a moment later Kilgharrah has already vanished and Merlin with him.

The rain is coming heavier now and the fires have started dying down, shrinking beneath the assault of the cold drops. It’s a fresh, clean rain and Arthur tilts his head towards the sky, closing his eyes as he lets it caress his face.

*

The site is swarming with police, just as Mordred had said, and entirely unsurprising given recent events. They look stressed and tired, haggard after a night filled with fires and a raging dragon. Along the perimeter - where laser lines have been activated to keep the public away - reporters are wedged together, brandishing cameras and communicators to capture as much of the action as possible. Between all of this, groups of stone-faced soldiers are strutting about with their weapons at the ready and several paramedics are hovering around the edges, next to their ambulances. Jellyfish are scattered about, but they aren’t moving, which Arthur is grateful for.

He picks his way carefully through the wreckage, squinting through the lingering smoke and blinking away rainwater, trying to spot a familiar face. Arthur isn’t sure of the picture he presents, but it can’t be a good one, and for the first time tonight he’s grateful that he’s apparently dirty enough not to be recognised by the vultures outside the laser lines.

He wonders where the hell everyone is. Usually he would’ve at least seen Nimueh by now, but of course that isn’t an option any longer. For all Arthur knows, Nimueh isn’t even in Camelot anymore. 

Sighing, he picks the first reasonably competent person he sees, which happens to be a brown-haired policeman who looks as though he’s barely finished training.

“Excuse me,” Arthur says. “Can you give me a debrief of what I’ve missed?”

The policeman looks at him strangely for a moment, but a moment later, recognition suddenly blooms across his face. Only instead of making him relax, he looks suddenly _terrified_.

Arthur frowns and takes a small step towards him, alarmed by how abruptly the colour has drained from his face.

“Are you alright?”

The man’s hand shoots up, a phaser clutched between his fingers and Arthur blinks at the barrel in confusion. 

“Not another step,” the policeman says, his voice not quite steady. “I have to ask you to put your hands where I can see them.”

Arthur stares at him, uncomprehending. It’s as if his body has finally decided that its had enough and has begun to shut down. Without the pressure of immediate danger and after having been churned through every emotionally wrecking situation imaginable, Arthur’s brain is clearly not willing to take anymore.

“I think there’s some kind of mistake here,” Arthur says, pitching his voice into something he hopes is placating. “I’m Arthur Pendragon. I’m the one who freed the people that were trapped here.”

The policeman barks out a trembling laugh, but there’s no humour and it only makes him sound faintly deranged.

“Oh, you freed them, alright,” he says, a little hysterically. “Along with that beast that set everything on fire and almost killed us all.” He raises the phaser just that little bit higher, closer to Arthur’s face. “Now, put your hands where I can see them and turn around. Slowly.”

Arthur doesn’t move. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “These people, they were kept against their will! My father-”

The policeman’s face hardens.

By some unseen sign, Arthur is suddenly surrounded by jellyfish, their sensors blinking evilly at him as they whirr around him, tentacles moving rhythmically. Each of them is brandishing their glowing blue stunner, held aloft and at the ready.

Clearly having reached the tail end of his patience, the policeman steps closer and exchanges the phaser for a pair of handrestraints. The Pendragon logo catches the light and Arthur feels ill when he sees it. The policeman grabs one of his arms, none too gently, and claps the restraint to his wrist.

“Arthur Pendragon, I’m arresting you on suspicion for the association with a secret rebel group-”

“Rebel group?” Arthur says, his voice rising without him meaning to. “What the hell-”

The policeman wrenches at his arm and Arthur gives a grunt of pain as his second wrist is wrestled into submission, his bruised left hand protesting at the harsh treatment.

“The association with a rebel group,” the policeman insists, the restrains tight enough to make Arthur’s fingers go numb. The jellyfish make a tinny sound and crowd in just a little closer. “For the theft of information related to secrets of the state and the involvement of the destruction of property. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“You can’t just arrest me!” Arthur is shouting now, but he doesn’t care. He balks, refusing to go into the direction the policeman is urging him towards. “I haven’t done anything _wrong_! These people-”

“Are highly dangerous,” the policeman snaps and wrenches Arthur’s arms back again. It hurts like fuck and Arthur curses at the painful strain in his muscles. “Those individuals are criminals-”

“Criminals!” Arthur all but yells. “ _There were children down there!_ ” Arthur is truly thrashing against the hold now. “You’re the police,” he roars, so angry he can barely see straight. “You’re supposed to protect people! Not feed into the corruption of men too powerful for their own good! You disgust me! You’re nothing but a group of spineless-” 

The jab comes without warning, hitting the back of his neck in a blaze of blue light and sending a painful shock through his body. It reverberates through each and every one of his nerves, setting them aflame before numbing them completely. His knees give and he wants to shout, but his vocal cords won’t work anymore, and neither do his eyes. There’s a gurgling noise and Arthur thinks it might have been him, but all he can think about is that he _can’t_ _see, can’t move, what’s happening, fuck please, please make it stop, make it st-_

*

When Arthur next opens his eyes, the ceiling above him is made of metal and so, he finds out as he turns his aching head, is the rest of the cell. Arthur’s never been to prison before, not in any capacity, but he doesn’t need to to recognise that that’s where he is.

There’s no window and no visible door, just the bunk he’s resting on and a lonely chair pushed against the closest wall.

Arthur takes a deep breath, then another, before carefully heaving himself into a sitting position.

The room spins around him and he has to close his eyes for a few moments to make it stop, willing his roiling stomach to settle. When he finally manages to unclench his jaw enough to give his teeth a break and he feels a little less as though he’s going to be sick right there on the bare, metal floor, Arthur takes another look at his surroundings.

There really isn’t anything to be seen. Each wall is as bare as the floor and except for a tiny panel with a familiar blinking light indicating the location of the environmental controls, there’s nothing. 

Looking down at himself, Arthur finds that he’s clean now, no trace of the dust and dirt from before. His left hand feels completely healed and the scratch along his arm is gone - so are his clothes. He grimaces at the foreign feel of the coarse fabric against his skin, the prison garb as drab and colourless as the cell. On the left side of his chest, right above the place where his heart is beating against his ribs, his identification number is printed on, crisp and easily readable.

Arthur touches it, but the fabric feels no different there. He raises his right hand, looking for his chip, but finds his wristband gone.

Dread floods through him, cold and unbidden, and he scrabbles at the hem of his right sleeve, shoving it up his arm as though his chip had somehow managed to hide there. But there’s nothing, only bare skin, and Arthur shudders at the knowledge that it’s truly gone. His entire life, captured in one little piece of metal on his wrist, has been taken away from him.

Without it, Arthur can do nothing. No door will open for him; he’ll be unable to drive a car or even buy himself so much as a pod of apples - if they ever let him out of here in the first place, that is. He’s no lawyer, but the list of charges against him had been long and incriminating despite their obvious ludicrousness. He wonders how on earth he’s managed to get from someone who frees innocents to being locked up in prison - what the fuck is wrong with the world?

He wonders if he’ll be allowed a lawyer, wonders if his father will come to see him, though he can’t decide if it’d be worse if he does, or he doesn’t.

He wonders if Merlin knows what happened.

Arthur presses his eyes closed against the gut wrenching thought of Merlin so far beyond his reach now, that maybe despite all their promises, they might never be able to see each other again. The thought is enough to nearly tip Arthur over into something that tastes too little of despair and far too much like madness, and so he lets it go. He clenches his fists, his nails ten sharp bites against his palms, and tries to keep it together. 

See how much good it’d done him when he’d lost it last time.

Arthur keeps his breathing calm, forcefully controlled.

He gets up and takes a few steps, knees week and legs shaky. He crosses the room once, twice, three times. He sits back down.

Looking up at the ceiling, Arthur tries to find an indication of a surveillance system, but sees nothing. He wonders if he should try banging against one of the walls, or all of them. Maybe someone would come? But no, they’d probably think he’s being difficult again, so he resists. Barely.

He lies back down and stares up at the ceiling, unseeing.

He tries to puzzle through the facts, to piece together the few things the policeman had told him, but his brain refuses to co-operate. All he can think about is how much he misses Merlin right in this moment, how desperately he wants to talk to him, to curl around him and to stuff that aching hole in his chest that just won’t close ever since he watched Merlin fly away.

Arthur closes his eyes, viciously angry at himself, but when Merlin’s face appears in his mind, he does nothing to push it away.

*

Arthur finds out what the chair is for when, after a few hours that feel like days, an invisible door opens to emit his father.

He strides into the cell, his presence making Arthur feel immediately suffocated, and lowers himself into the chair as if it were a throne; a king about to hold an audience. His clothes are clean and crisp, but there’s a weariness in the lines of his face and he’s just pale enough for the shadows beneath his eyes to form a contrast. Arthur feels a sort of malicious satisfaction when he sees it, when it’s clear that something at last has managed to fracture the legendary iron control of Uther Pendragon.

Mindful of his still roiling stomach, Arthur sits up, bringing his feet to the floor. He won’t just lie here and let his father loom over him.

“Arthur,” his father begins in that particular tone that means Arthur’s gravely disappointed him somehow, though today Arthur finds that he doesn’t care. “I know you must be wondering why you’re here, but I thought it for the best to give you a chance to cool down; reflect on your behaviour.”

Arthur stares at him, aghast, and wonders for the first time if his father is actually, truly insane.

“ _Cool down?_ ” he asks incredulously. “Father, I’m not an errant child in need of a scolding. In fact, _I haven’t done anything wrong_. You-” He swallows, the words sticking to his throat. “You _enslaved_ innocent people to-”

“I know you were unaware,” Uther says, his voice as cold and flat as a slab of ice. “But these people aren’t innocent. They are sorcerers, part of a rebel group seeking to overthrow our government. The Head Minister himself has entrusted me with the task of keeping them safely locked away.”

The last shred of Arthur’s hope dissolves into nothing. 

If the Head Minister himself had been in on it, that means that Albion Council, for whatever reason, had condoned his father incarcerating innocent people - and now Arthur would be stamped off as a villain right alongside them. Rebel group, ha. What a load of bullshit!

“Is that what you’re selling to the public, then? This rebel group crap?” Arthur demands harshly. “Because you know as well as I that any rebelling that might’ve taken place because of this is fully justified. These people were completely defenceless! There were _children down there_! How can you just- just dismiss all of this? You - and apparently the entirety of Albion’s government - lied about the existence of magic and hunted sorcerers like animals!”

“Arthur, they are _criminals_ , do you understand?” Uther’s voice is like a clap of thunder, his body tense as though he’s seconds away from rising. “If given free reign they would put us all at their mercy and infest the country with their harebrained customs - the _Old Religion_ and all such nonsense. These people are barbarians, they live in the wilderness, perform blood rituals and chant at the moon, for pity’s sake! Even you in the midst of your helpless infatuation must see that all the government has done is to protect the people of Albion.”

“Protect them,” Arthur barely keeps his voice from trembling in sheer rage. “ _Protect them from what_ , father? You have given these people no chance, no opportunity to explain themselves and put forth demands. You simply _incarcerated_ them!” Unable to sit still a moment longer, Arthur shoots off the bed and Uther straightens to his full height. “You call them barbaric? It’s _you_ who are the monsters! How could you do this, father? _How?_ Do you have no conscience, no _humanity_? And Morgana-” Arthur broke off abruptly, throat momentarily too tight to speak.

His father visibly softens, his next words quiet and almost gentle.

“I regret what happened to your sister, but I did what I had to, to protect her. Both of you. You are my children and I love you, there was never a question about that.” Uther’s face darkens once more. “But magic users aren’t human, they’re evil through and through. I know you think you know them because of your misguided affection for that boy-”

Arthur’s head snaps up, pinning his father with a look that is apparently wild and murderous enough to cut him off.

“It is not,” Arthur says, slow and careful. “Misguided. I love Merlin, though I don’t expect you to understa-”

“Don’t you dare talk to me of love, boy!” Uther roars suddenly, face twisted in ugly fury, all paleness gone and replaced by hectic blotches of red. “You know nothing - _nothing_ \- of what I’ve been through. You think you know it all, but let me tell you this. That thing you had living with you was merely a puppet controlled by that warlock, _Emrys_. He cares nothing for you, he simply made eyes at you so he could free himself and the rest of his ilk. He _used you_ , Arthur-”

“That’s not true!” Arthur bites out. He’s shaking now, his knees protesting his standing position, but he won’t give his father the satisfaction of seeing him shattered and weakened. Instead, he squares his shoulders and forces himself to hold his father’s gaze. “You know it isn’t. He was willing to _die for me-_ ”

“That’s what he has you _believe_ ,” his father cuts in irritably. “While all the while he knew that he’d get you to _rescue_ him - his knight in shining armour. Can’t you see that this was his plan all along? Are you really so naive as to believe-”

“Believe what?” Arthur asks hoarsely. “That someone might be stupid enough to actually love me?” His nails bite deeper into his palms and he knows that there’s no way of hiding the way he’s trembling now. “I know what it feels like to be used and betrayed. I’m not as dumb as you clearly think I am.”

His father fixes him with another pointed look. “Where is he now, then? Your precious sorcerer?” he asks. “He left you, didn’t he? As soon as he got what he wanted he swung himself onto the back of that foul beast and left you behind.”

Arthur forces down the bitter taste of bile, feels nothing but disgust as he looks at the man he’d admired all his life. But not anymore, he thinks. Not anymore.

“Every time you open your mouth, you lie.”

Uther’s mouth turns down into a frown. “I have no reason to lie about this, Arthur,” he says. “I told you, you are my son and I love you. I’m concerned for you! I’ve dealt with their kind before, with their sly ways.” His father takes a step towards him, clearly entreating now. “Emrys is dangerous, Arthur - the most dangerous of them all. He was barely ten years old when we captured him and already he had more power than most. He injured a great many people that day. It’s a miracle no one was killed.”

Arthur’s stomach turns violently, remembering Freya telling him the same thing. That Merlin had been only ten when his father had him hunted down and locked away. He’d been like one of the children Arthur had seen in the pods; thin and small and alone. Arthur hadn’t known that he could feel any more disgusted or enraged, but this, _this_ -

“A miracle no one was killed?” Arthur repeats, voice raw. “He was _defending himself_!”

His father shakes his head and looks at him as though _Arthur_ is the child. “Something you still have to learn is to look at the bigger picture. Imprisoning a child isn’t something I enjoyed, but Emrys cannot be allowed to go free. He’s said to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever exist and the prophesy clearly states-”

Arthur snorts. “Your hypocrisy really knows no bounds, does it?” He watches his father’s face tighten in anger and feels an odd sense of satisfaction. Two can play this game. “You condemn magic in one breath and in the next you talk about a prophecy. Are you really so afraid of something that hasn’t even happened yet that you have to resort to chasing down frightened children and lock them up for life? And not only that, but to use them for your own gain - you along with the leaders of the country! Is that really what’s become of Albion?”

Uther gives him his best disparaging stare. “You’re still defending him?” he asks, not even bothering to comment on Arthur’s arguments. “Even after everything I’ve just told you?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, meets his father’s gaze head-on. “I love Merlin,” he says again, unwavering. “And he has my absolute trust.”

His father makes a disgusted sound. “And the fact that he abandoned you? Does it count for nothing?”

“He didn’t _abandon_ me,” Arthur says angrily. “He had to leave because of _you_.”

His father sighs, suddenly deflated. “It’s my fault,” he says. “I thought you were ready, but I should’ve known better after the fiasco with that Sophia girl. You are naive, my son, naive and far too trusting. But you’ll learn your lesson, as I did mine, and it will open your eyes. In the meantime, it falls to me to keep on protecting you.”

Dread pools in Arthur’s gut. _Protect me from what?_

He watches as his father takes a measured step towards the chair and brings down a hand to rest on the backrest. He looks ready to launch into one of his lectures.

“You are a danger to yourself in your current state,” he says, back to being cold and dispassionate. He almost sounds as though he’s presenting an idea to the board at Pendragon Enterprises. “One has only to look at the devastation you’ve wrecked on our headquarters - not to mention the mess you’ve made by freeing those magic users. But the Head Minister has kindly allowed me free reign with your punishment. The Council is aware that you weren’t yourself, that you acted on the will of the warlock Emrys. Still, your actions cannot be excused with a mere slap on the wrist. You will remain here until the end of the week, not only to help you regain your senses, but also to get the first media commotion out of the way. After that, you’ll be released to your penthouse. You’ll have full access to all your facilities, but you won’t be allowed outside of your flat. You’ll be under constant surveillance - and yes, that includes whatever activity you indulge in on the internet - and security guards will be posted at your door at all times - for your protection, you understand.”

Arthur can’t believe this.

“Oh, I understand,” he bites out. “And then what? You’ll keep me like that forever? Will I get a live-in nurse? Do you intend to put me on drugs, too?”

Uther gives him a pitying look as though it’s Arthur that’s behaving ridiculous, as though it’s him that’s lost his mind. He thinks he must know now, how Morgana felt all these years.

“One day you will understand that what I do, I do for your own good,” his father says.

Arthur sneers at him. “I can assure you, if that day ever comes, I’ll throw myself from the highest tower entirely of my own volition.”

“ _Watch your tone_ ,” Uther snaps, his gip on the chair turning white-knuckled. “I might be acting leniently, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not upset with you. I’m still your father and you will show me some respect!”

Arthur’s nails bite into his palm as he clenches his fits. “I’d rather cut out my tongue!”

“Arthur!” His father looks livid and Arthur relishes it, ploughs right on.

“What? Are you shocked that I’m not ready to fall on my knees and grovel like all the years before?” he says, all sharp edges and with complete disregard of the fact that some of his words cut himself as well as his father. “Do you expect me to bow my head and say _yes father_ to your plans of locking me up in my own home? Do you expect me to _thank you_?”

Uther is stiff now, his back rigid and his expression entirely carved out of stone. When he speaks again, it’s as if Arthur’s words haven’t even registered.

“I’ve drawn up a contract,” his father says icily. “Obviously it’s too soon to expect any form of rationality from you, but when the time comes and you’ve found your senses from where you left them after that sorcerer sucked them out through your privates, I’ll expect you to sign it. It will reinstate you as a citizen and your chip will be returned to you. You’ll have limited use, at first, but I trust that after some time, when you’ve proven yourself to be properly behaved, you’ll be given back full access in all areas. Until then, I’m giving you a month’s holiday to give you some time to recuperate. After that, you’ll be allowed to work from home. I expect you to put all your efforts into redeeming yourself - there’s a lot of rebuilding to be done.” He gives Arthur a hard look. “Literally.”

Arthur merely glares at him and his father finally lets go of the chair. His body is already turned towards the door and Arthur knows that look, knows that his father is about to dismiss him, uncaring where Arthur stands at this point of their exchange.

“I shall see you again at the end of the week when I come to pick you up,” Uther says, words ringing with finality. Arthur doesn’t bother to reply, keeps stubbornly silent at the pause clearly intended for Arthur’s acknowledgement.

His father leaves and Arthur doesn’t watch him go, simply goes back to his bed, takes the lumpy excuse for a pillow and drags it over his head.

*

Not long after his father’s visit, they move him to a different cell. 

It isn’t bigger and just as bare as the last, but it’s clearly intended for extended stays because there’s a small sequestered spot with a toilet and shower and the tiniest sink Arthur has ever seen. 

Arthur goes quietly, lets himself be restrained for the move and doesn’t speak to anyone. He goes straight to the bed and lies down, his body aching even as his mind insists on staying as numb as possible, too exhausted to from even a single coherent thought. Arthur thinks it’s probably for the best.

He doesn’t get up when the food arrives and it remains untouched until they take it away again. The pillow in his new cell is just as lumpy as the one before.

*

Leon visits the next day.

Arthur doesn’t expect him, doesn’t expect anyone. He hadn’t even known he’s allowed any visitors, but when he sees Leon hovering awkward at the door, looking pale and impossibly tired, Arthur isn’t really sure what to make of it.

He doesn’t sit up, one hand still curled into the pillow and the index finger of his right hand an angry red from the amount of absent ring-twisting he’d done. Leon probably thinks he’s lost it, he certainly looks at Arthur as though he thinks it’s a distinct possibility.

Arthur doesn’t know whether he isn’t right.

After another stretch of lead laden silence, Leon finally takes a step further into the room. He eyes the chair, then seems to have made up his mind and crosses to it. The legs drag loudly across the floor as Leon positions it to face Arthur on the bed, before he folds his tall form into it.

“I came to see how you’re holding up,” Leon says.

Arthur holds his gaze for a moment, then returns his eyes to the ceiling, where they’d been resting before Leon’s unexpected entry.

“Is it raining?” he asks, too exhausted to act normal and instead posing the only question he cares about right now.

He can see Leon blink at him out of the corner of his eye, clearly confused. “What?”

If there’d been any doubt in Leon’s mind about Arthur’s sanity, Arthur probably destroyed them right about now. But he doesn’t care if the whole world thinks he’s lost his mind. After all, Morgana managed to put up with it for years and Arthur thinks it’s only fair that it’s his turn now.

“Outside,” Arthur clarifies, feeling the ornate carvings of his ring as he gives it another twist. “Is it still raining?”

Leon eyes him strangely, but to his credit, he doesn’t immediately run from the room and his tone is fairly normal when he finally answers.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s let up a bit, but it’s still raining. Hasn’t stopped since-” Leon cuts himself off, as if he thinks mentioning recent events has the potential to send Arthur into a fit. “Well, it hasn’t stopped,” he finishes awkwardly.

Arthur nods and takes a deep breath as something unclenches inside his chest.

“Good,” he says simply and then neither of them says anything for a while.

The silence should be uncomfortable, but somehow it’s not and Arthur, who feels altogether as if he’s done far too much talking - too much _fighting_ \- lately, is glad for the respite.

“Listen, Arthur,” Leon says suddenly, and it’s abrupt and maybe a little desperate. “I know this might not be the right time to tell you this, but I want you to hear it from me. I quit.”

Arthur looks at him, but still doesn’t say anything and Leon keeps talking, uncharacteristically clumsy.

“It’s just that-” He swallows. “I finally know what’s going on. I had no idea about any of this and I finally realised that that’s what you’ve been doing all along, trying to find out the truth. And I wanted to thank you for it, for being brave enough to do what’s right and for opening my eyes. And I wanted to say I’m sorry.” He looks at Arthur, so earnest and distraught that Arthur almost reaches out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for not seeing it sooner and even sorrier that you felt like you couldn’t confide in me.”

“Leon-” Arthur says and his regret must’ve shown in his voice, because Leon cuts him off almost immediately.

“No, no I understand,” he says quickly. “This wasn’t meant as- I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighs. “The fault’s mine, obviously. I should’ve told you this much sooner. I’ve always considered you a friend, Arthur and my loyalty has always lain with you first and foremost. And I know this must look like I’m abandoning you, right now when you need all the support you can get, but I’m not. I might no longer be an employee of Pendragon Enterprises, but I _am_ here for you if you need me. So if there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, you let me know, alright?”

And Arthur does reach for him then and Leon meets him halfway. They end up clasping forearms, the old gesture symbolising brotherhood that the lower people still use as a greeting - it’s oddly fitting.

“Thank you, Leon,” Arthur says, sounding just a little bit like himself again for a moment.

Leon hears it too, and smiles.

*

There’s nothing to pass his time with in captivity.

Time seems to start dragging on infinitely, minutes and hours stretching out before him, one exactly like the other.

At first, Arthur had simply stayed in the hard, narrow bed of his cell, hoping that some of his drive would return, but he’s come to realise that his tiredness is not one of the body and no amount of resting seems to make any difference. Despite it all, sleep doesn’t come. He barely manages a couple of hours a night and, forced into inactivity as he is, it only becomes harder with each passing day.

All his requests for a tablet or ereader are met with blank stares, depriving him of any attempt to shut up the thoughts spinning around wildly in his head, to take his mind off everything for just a little while.

And so he does nothing, nothing at all. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep and refuses to speak to anyone, unable to master up the will or energy for it.

Leon comes to see him every day, so do Elena and Mithian. He can see the questions in their eyes, but they never press Arthur, instead chattering away at him, knowing he isn’t listening but keeping it up anyway. It’s soothing, somehow, the breaking of the silence helping Arthur feel just a little bit more human again.

But most of the time, he just feels trapped. His skin is too tight, as though it doesn’t fit him anymore, and most days Arthur doesn’t even recognise himself. He misses Morgana, keeps worrying about her and second guessing each and every one of his past decisions. He misses Lance’s steady presence and gentle reassurance. He misses Gwen and even Gaius.

And Merlin-

Nothing compares to missing Merlin.

Arthur doesn’t so much as ache for him, as feel as though he’s stopped breathing entirely. And it’s not that he thinks about Merlin constantly so much as that Arthur simply feels like half of himself isn’t even there and there’s no way to forget that, even if he wanted to; no respite from the feeling of utter incompleteness.

*

True to his word, his father has him returned to his flat at the end of the week after five torturous days of doing nothing.

It’s immediately clear that someone’s been here in his absence and it doesn’t take him long to realise that whoever it was had clearly been awarded the task of clearing the flat of every trace of Merlin’s presence. It’s not just the obvious things that are gone - like the magic books and his clothes - but also little, inconsequential things like the little dragon figurine Arthur had bought for Merlin on a whim about two months ago; a small trinket he’d stumbled across when he’d been looking for a present for Morgana. When he’d given it to him, Merlin’s eyes had been all but glowing, his smile so wide and bright that Arthur had found it hard to breathe in the face of it. The dragon had found a home on the nightstand of Merlin’s side of the bed and Arthur’s become so used to it that its absence feels just like another empty hole.

And as Arthur stands there, tracing the place where the figurine had been with a not-quite steady finger, he feels something bubbling up in his throat that could’ve been an unhinged laugh as much as a sob. It doesn’t matter.

He lets himself sink onto the bed, the sheets fresh and crisp and just another cruel reminder of how his father thinks Arthur fickle enough to forget Merlin on the mere grounds of throwing out a bunch of clothes and doing the laundry. He buries his face in Merlin’s pillow all the same, inhales breath after shaky breath of his detergent and thinks that his father knows nothing at all. Because Merlin had never smelled of anything but this, right here, no natural scent there to dilute the fresh smell of his clothes and Arthur’s shampoo clinging to his hair.

And it hurts, the stab of realisation coming hot and sharp and running him straight through, that Arthur didn’t even have the time to find out Merlin’s actual scent - the human Merlin he’d held in his arms just a few days ago, frail and so, _so_ thin - but warm and alive and somehow still Arthur’s. But all Arthur remembers now is the biting smell of antiseptics, of sickness and the mouldy dampness of the Crystal Cave; the acrid sharpness of smoke that had numbed his nose for anything else.

He wonders now, his face pressed almost painfully tightly into the pillow, what Merlin will smell like when he’s back in Arthur’s arms; human and deprived of Arthur’s presence in his life.

His father’s words come back to him, for no other reason than his own despair and the realisation that the numbness of the past few days has somehow started to fade into something darker and far more painful. 

 _Where is he now, then?_ Uther’s words echo through his mind, sharp and cruel and wrong. _Your precious sorcerer? He left you, didn’t he? As soon as he got what he wanted he swung himself onto the back of that foul beast and left you behind._

Arthur knows they aren’t true, he _knows_ it, knows _Merlin_. But his father is clever and even cleverer with his words and it’s no surprise that he knew where to cut for it to hurt, to linger and fester in Arthur’s brain, no matter how much he knows in his heart that it isn’t true. And it makes him burn with a fury so harsh that his whole mouth floods with bitterness, because of all the things his father has already destroyed, he has no right to do this. No right to take away these last traces of Merlin and taint Arthur’s memories of their time together, to plant doubt after everything that’s already happened.

In a move so sudden that it leaves Arthur blinking away dark spots, he scrambles from the bed. Suddenly, inexplicably, he knows exactly what he needs to do.

*

He starts with the aquarium.

Arthur hasn’t opened it since he got it; electronic fish don’t need feeding and the cleansing capsules have done their work in keeping it clean. Luring the fish to the surface, Arthur takes them out one by one. They’re smooth and slippery between his fingers, but they don’t move, just lie pliantly in Arthur’s hands as he switches off each one and puts them in a bag, out of sight. It leaves him feeling a little sick, but he pushes the feeling away and turns his back on the aquarium, leaving the water to drain.

The fish are followed by his communicator, his ereaders and his tablets. He clears the kitchen of appliances and fills another bag with those, then walks over to his holo-projector and rips it out from where it’s been fixed into the floor and chucks that in as well.

When he’s finally done - hot and exhausted, his fringe clinging to his forehead - Arthur calls down the androids guarding the flat at his father’s orders and tells them to get rid of it all, including the holo-desk where he’d dumped everything. Thankfully, the androids don’t question him and Arthur doesn’t watch them, instead retreating to his bedroom.

With the help of physical exertion, Arthur finally manages to fall asleep that night for longer than just one or two hours at a time, but wakes to his own scream before dawn has had a chance to lighten the sky despite the ever shorter growing nights as summer approaches. Blinking away tears that Arthur doesn’t remember crying, he does his best to banish all thoughts about Merlin’s skin dripping gold, consuming him whole - only that this time Arthur fails to find him again.

Unable to stay in bed for even a moment longer, Arthur forces himself to take a hot shower and stumbles into the living area.

The aquarium sits dark and empty, making the whole room seem dimmer than Arthur is used to. His work area has turned into a wide stretch of unused space overnight, the holo-desk and all the bags filled with each and every Pendragon tech he’d owned gone. He stares at both, unseeing, until the first light of dawn finally penetrates his stupor and he moves to the kitchen.

He unearths a pot, chuckling humourlessly at himself as he fills it with water and puts it on the heating platform to boil. It dies abruptly in his throat when his eyes find the groove of the scratch Merlin had left in one of the counter tops so long ago. Touching it is familiar and pathetically soothing and Arthur can’t seem to stop. He forgets about the water and doesn’t move again until his feet have started going numb and the tip of his finger feels raw from tracing the uneven patch of metal.

Outside, the rain is still falling.

*

Trapped and left with none of his usual entertainment, Arthur spends the first days after his return to the flat wandering the place like a ghost and being bitter. After that, feeling thoroughly sick of himself, he starts thinking about alternate ways to keep busy. He puts together a regiment, a mix of physical exercises broken up by his usual sword drills, feeling only slightly stupid with his hands closed around thin air instead of an actual handle. He eventually unearths some sort of pipe-like thing that might’ve been part of a hoover once, but Arthur can’t be sure. It doesn’t necessarily make him feel less stupid, but it’s definitely better for his form and balance to have something real swing and hold on to.

He builds up some of the muscles he’s lost since he started working for Pendragon Enterprises full time and feels almost fitter than he did back in his university days; when he’d still had the time to regularly work out and partaken in tournaments. The remainder of his time is filled with working his way through Morgana’s book collection, which he’d asked for and thankfully not been denied.

Morgana’s taste, Arthur knows, ranges from highly sophisticated to absolute trash. For the lack of anything better to do and, admittedly, because of a rather annoying fit of sentimentality, Arthur reads them all. Sadly, this includes a ridiculous book series about a woman who constantly needed saving, was apparently the most beautiful and innocent creature that had ever walked the earth - full of virtue and benevolence - only to turn into a complete beast in the sack after she’d finally managed to capture the heart of the ruggedly handsome duke. Arthur almost chucks each volume out twice over, but ends up keeping all of them.

When he sees Morgana again, he’ll be sure to never let her live this down.

Every few days, his father comes to visit, but Arthur refuses to talk to him. After the promised month of ‘holiday’, Uther starts a valiant attempt at getting Arthur to start working for him again, but no amount of sharp words or veiled threats make Arthur so much as touch the tablets his father leaves for him. Clearly unsettled by Arthur’s silent hostility and the sudden inability to guilt his son into doing his bidding, Uther’s visits start to dwindle and Arthur wishes he were a little bit more surprised when they stop entirely. Enraged by Arthur’s ‘unreasonable behaviour’, his father refuses to let him see his friends and Arthur is left completely alone once more. He wonders if that means he’ll never leave this flat again.

Throughout it all, the rain doesn’t stop and neither do his nightmares.

Arthur takes to sleeping on the couch again, unable to bear all the empty space in his bed, but it doesn’t make his rest any easier. The physical exercise helps with the initial stage of falling asleep - at least as much as anything can with his insomnia back full force - but does nothing to keep him from startling awake long before dawn, drenched in sweat and hoarse from screams that often never make it past his throat.

Despite the fact that the flat has become his cell, Arthur keeps catching himself having thoughts about how there’s way too much emptiness around him. Everything reminds him of Merlin, of them occupying this space together, and it’s as if Arthur had never lived here alone, the few months with Merlin having entirely erased whatever had been before.

The days melt into each other and Arthur thinks that time might just work differently here, in this small space that is too big, his world shrunk down to a flat that had only ever felt like a home as long as Merlin had been in it. 

Another month passes and Arthur is slowly getting used to feeling like half a person.

Then another.

*

And it rains.

*

And rains.

*

And rains.

*

\- Until, one day, it doesn’t.

*

It doesn’t stop overnight. When Arthur gets up that morning, it’s to the familiar sound of raindrops pattering against the windows. Making his way to the kitchen, he pours himself some cereal and sits down on Merlin’s settee, watching the wet lines snaking down the transparent aluminium as he absently shovels food into his mouth.

The sky is grey, full of clouds that haven’t gone in two months, despite the temperature growing warmer. Next to him, the empty aquarium sits as forlorn as Arthur feels. He ends up chucking half of his breakfast.

He goes through his morning exercises with mechanic intent, then goes off to have a shower. On the way back, he picks up the book he’s been reading, an arresting historical adventure about a young warlock who falls in love with an older king, and settles back on the settee with it.

When Arthur next looks up, the rain has stopped.

Arthur stares, disbelieving, his finger automatically folding into the book to mark his page as he rises slowly.

The cloud bank that had been hovering so insistently over the horizon has finally broken and the sun stands high and bright in the sky in a way it hasn’t for weeks - _three months_ , a voice whispers somewhere inside him.

In the hall, Arthur can hear the door of his private ascender sliding open, the small sound loud in the stillness of the room. He wants to turn around, but his body won’t move. He holds his breath.

“Arthur,” Merlin says behind him, aching and tender.

And Arthur knows that it’s him, he _knows_ , but still he can’t move. He’s scared, so scared that if he unsticks his feet from the floor, all this would shatter and he’d wake up alone once more. But lately, Arthur’s dreams have been filled with death and desolation and so much golden light that Arthur’s eyes still sting every time he blinks his way back to reality. Not once has his treacherous brain allowed him to dream something like this; something warm and hopeful.

So it’s with this knowledge that he finally lets himself turn, heart in his throat and chest painfully tight. Reality holds and Merlin stands there, in a space that is both familiar and different, looking the same and yet not. His hair is longer, thick and black and covering almost the entirety of his ridiculous, lovely ears. His cheeks have filled out into something that doesn’t look like death any longer and there’s the faintest trace of colour on his cheekbones.

Lungs screaming, Arthur finally takes a breath and it feels like the first real one since Merlin had gone.

Merlin looks back at him, his eyes still ridiculously blue despite the lack of artificial colouring and Arthur could weep with the relief of it all. The book slips from Arthur’s fingers and before it’s hit the ground, Merlin is in his arms.

They crash together without finesse, wild with desperation. Their mouths mesh together in a mess of teeth and tongues, wet and messy and the best thing Arthur has ever felt. His hands, starved for so long, don’t know where to touch first. They clutch at Merlin’s shoulders, Arthur’s palms fitting where they melt into the long curve of Merlin’s neck and once Arthur feels Merlin’s warm skin, feels the pulse beating beneath his fingers, he can’t wrench them away to touch anywhere else.

Merlin moans, deep in his throat, and threads his fingers through Arthur’s hair, holding onto him as though Arthur isn’t thinking about staying fused to Merlin’s lips forever.

The rough fabric of Merlin’s cloak scrapes against Arthur’s fingertips, coarse and damp from the rain, as Arthur moves one hand to curve around the nape of Merlin’s neck. Merlin eases off, just a little, turning the clinging mess of their mouths into a proper kiss. He licks into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur makes a choked sound as he parts his lips for it, meets it with his own.

His fingers curl into the hood of Merlin’s cloak and Arthur angles his head, turning the kiss hotter, deeper.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, because it’s been three months, 13 weeks, _91 days_ since he’d last said Merlin’s name. “Merlin.”

And Merlin kisses him hard, pushes Arthur’s own name back into his mouth and shapes frantic little strings of words against Arthur’s lips. _I missed you, so much, so-_ and _Arthur, Arthur, missed you, missed-_ and _wanted you with me so badly, wanted- want-_ and then, fervent and earnest and breathless _I love you, I love you, Arthur, I love you._

And Arthur doesn’t know what he says, his brain too busy absorbing Merlin’s words, sucking them in greedily like a shrivelled, died up sponge, soaking them up and etching them into his memory.

Separating is hard, physically painful, but Merlin tries to tell him that

“-don’t have much time. We need to go. Arthur, _Arthur_ \- We have to go.”

But Arthur can’t stop, not without another kiss and another. Merlin sucks on his bottom lip, bites gently, his fingers still tight in Arthur’s hair even when he finally draws back. He’s flushed and breathless, his eyes dark with want, and it’s so new, so _incredibly amazing_ , that Arthur can’t help but lean in again, burying his head in Merlin’s hot neck, tugging at his collar to reach the skin beneath and taste it, taste the salt of Merlin’s sweat on his tongue.

He groans and Merlin’s fingers bite sharply into Arthur’s scalp, nails digging in as Arthur sets his teeth to Merlin’s neck, sucks hard, harder - sucks until Merlin’s breath is loud and wild in his ear and Arthur’s sure that he’s left a mark.

Merlin pushes against him, a feeble attempt to put some distance between them, which he promptly contradicts as he parts his lips for Arthur’s tongue a moment later, dragging Arthur deeper into the kiss and making those tiny, whimpery noises that Arthur’s missed so much, never wants to not hear ever again.

“We really,” Merlin says, breathless and when he pushes against Arthur’s chest this time, Arthur reluctantly relents. “Really need to go.”

Arthur licks his lips - and they taste of Merlin now, _Merlin_ and not just himself, taste of something sharp and herbal and something softer underneath, something human that is all Merlin.

“Alright,” Arthur says, clears his throat, and Merlin smiles at him, derailing Arthur’s thoughts and all that comes out of his mouth is another, “Alright.”

Merlin cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair, longer now as well, and smoothes it back, away from his forehead.

“Pack a bag, okay?” he says, brushing his lips against Arthur’s cheek, the bridge of his nose, before taking a resolute step back. “I’m afraid we can’t take a lot, and we need to hurry. Your father’ll probably send over half an army when your watchdogs fail to check in at the full hour and I’d like a bit of a head start.”

Arthur nods, a little stupid with how quickly things are moving now after two months of endless, dragging hours.

“A bag, right,” he repeats, blinks dumbly, then finally snaps into action. Turning towards the direction of his bedroom, Arthur can’t help but glance over his shoulder, unable to let Merlin out of his sight after finally having him back. He needn’t have worried, because Merlin is right there, hot on Arthur’s heels, and they make their way into Arthur’s dressing room together. Inside, they’re surrounded by clothes that he hasn’t worn - hasn’t even _looked at_ \- in months. He isn’t even sure he remembers what wearing a proper pair of jeans feels like anymore.

Merlin navigates easily through the sea of Arthur’s clothing and Arthur can’t help but feel something loosen inside his chest when it’s clear that Merlin still remembers - remembers this, here, Arthur’s stuff and his space, because that means that he remembers _Arthur_ , that he hasn’t forgotten, hasn’t wanted to forget.

Unearthing his old messenger bag from uni, Arthur is relieved to see that it looks just as tattered as he remembers after accidentally mixing it in with his laundry once. He accepts whatever Merlin hands him; underwear, a handful of plain tshirts and three of his most worn jeans. All of Arthur’s regular, more flashy clothes stay firmly on the racks, none of them fit for Below and wherever else Merlin intends to take him.

Rummaging through the bottom of one of the drawers, Arthur finds the box where he keeps what is left of his mother’s jewellery and tucks it safely into the folds of his clothes. When he looks back up, Merlin’s back is turned, hands buried in a stack of Arthur’s jumpers. Something small and white unfurls inside the hood of Merlin’s cloak and Arthur freezes, gapes when he realises what he’s looking at.

“Merlin you-” he says, sounding strangled, unsure how to complete the sentence. Merlin turns back to him, eyebrows up and questioning. Arthur waves his hand in an ambiguous gesture, flaps it into the direction of Merlin’s hood. “There’s a- a dragon,” he says, throat dry. “It- Is it- Is that…?” He swallows, not even sure about what he’s asking.

But Merlin, somehow, understands, gives a jerky nod and a somewhat strangely shy smile. “Yes,” he says, reaching up where the baby dragon has scrambled onto Merlin’s shoulder to gently scratch its tiny chin. “This is Aithusa. She’s the dragon you helped me save.” Aithusa purrs and rubs her head against Merlin’s cheek.

“Good,” Arthur says stupidly. “That’s good.”

Merlin smiles at him and hands him two thick cardigans and a jumper. Arthur stuffs them in alongside the other clothes, then closes the bag and clips it shut. Rising quickly, he chucks his jogging pants and replaces them with a pair of dark jeans. He leaves his tshirt on and steps into the sturdy boots he’d worn to his last excursion Below. Once done, he holds out his hand for his cloak, but Merlin shakes his head, instead stepping in close and draping it over Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur’s breath hitches a little when he feels Merlin’s fingers brushing his throat and he tilts his head to give Merlin’s hands room to fasten the clasp.

“There,” Merlin says, smoothing the coarse fabric of the cloak along Arthur’s chest. “All set.”

And Arthur can’t help but lean in to kiss him again, fitting his palm to Merlin’s jaw and only remembering Aithusa’s presence when the dragon nips at his finger, the tiny mouth still toothless. He draws pack, startled, and Merlin laughs at the look on his face. Arthur scowls at them both.

“She likes you,” Merlin says fondly and when he smiles that particularly wide smile of his, Arthur’s heart stutters pathetically.

“Gods, I’ve missed you,” Arthur breathes, unable not to. 

And Merlin’s face turns soft, his eyes overly bright as he touches Arthur’s cheek, leans in to kiss him again, gently.

“Me too,” Merlin whispers,voice tight with emotion. “So much. I wanted to come sooner, but I slept most of the first month and the next, when I was finally awake, my parents wouldn’t let me go anywhere for ages.” His grip on Arthur tightens, his fingers curling into the fabric of Arthur’s cloak. “I heard about your arrest, about your father locking you up here. I’m so sorry it took me so long to get to you, I-”

Arthur kisses him, stops the babbling flow of words and pulls him in, trapping Merlin’s hands between their chests.

“Shut up you idiot,” Arthur mutters, choked. “I don’t care about that, I- I just need you to be alright, do you hear? That’s all I want, that you’re okay.” He runs his thumbs along Merlin’s cheekbones, lets his eyes flicker anxiously over his face, taking the time to look, really look at him. There’s a tiny mole, right above Merlin’s right eyebrow that Arthur’s never seen before and from this close, he can see the barest hint of a stubble along his jaw and throat. Letting his hands slide lower, Arthur traces it, feels a few patches that are rougher than others beneath his fingertips. Merlin shivers, but is otherwise still under Arthur’s touch, eyes wide and soft as they watch him. Arthur swallows, mutters, “Are you? Are you okay, Merlin?”

And Merlin’s hands catch his own, twine their fingers together and squeeze, warm and achingly familiar.

“I’m okay,” Merlin says, tugs Arthur in towards him and softly touches his forehead to Arthur’s. “I’m perfect.”

*

“So, how are we doing this?” Arthur asks when they’re back in the living area, his bag slung, fully packed, over his shoulder.

Merlin grins, tilts his head towards the wide stretch of the window. “Down is easier than up.”

Arthur looks at him, aghast, isn’t sure he’s quite understood what Merlin means.

“We’re…jumping?” Arthur asks, incredulous and not a little apprehensive.

Merlin takes his hand, squeezes it gently. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

And it shouldn’t be enough to reassure him, but it still is somehow.

Arthur squeezes back. “I know.”

*

Afterwards, Arthur isn’t even sure about what exactly happened. He remembers Merlin’s eyes turning to molten gold as he waved his hand, remembers the rush of air as the length of transparent aluminium disappeared and he remembers Merlin’s hand in his own.

The jump itself is fuzzy, all of it feeling less like falling and rather more like flying as Camelot’s skyline tilts and comes up to meet them. Arthur wonders if Merlin has done something to him, cast some enchantment to calm him down, wants to ask him about it, but the rushing of the air is loud around them and without the soundproofing of his flat, the noises of the city close in around them and Arthur’s sure his words would be snatched away before they have any chance of reaching Merlin’s ears.

They land softly, far softer than Arthur had anticipated, and no one around them spares them so much as a glance. Definitely enchanted, then.

“Where are we going?” Arthur finally lets himself ask, both feet safely back on the ground and voice his own once more.

Merlin doesn’t let go of his hand, leads him down a seemingly random street, Aithusa purring happily on his shoulder. Her sky-blue eyes fix Arthur for a moment and he could swear that she’s grinning at him.

“For now, somewhere quiet,” Merlin says.

Arthur wants to ask more, but catches sight of a jellyfish and instantly stiffens in alarm. Merlin follows his gaze, squeezes his hand again.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “They can’t see us.”

And they can’t, as Arthur finds out a moment later, when one of them passes by them with barely a foot to spare, oblivious to their presence. All this display of power leaves Arthur a little breathless, even after all the evidence that yes, Merlin is indeed the most powerful sorcerer that has ever lived. It’s weird and Arthur would laugh it off, if he weren’t so frequently reminded of how true it is.

In the time since Merlin’s arrival, the sky above them has darkened and small lanterns have started flickering to life. Most of the stalls are closing for the day, their owners stacking wares and putting them away, some shouting at their hapless apprentices, some sullenly going about their business alone. They pass a few public houses, music and rowdy laughter spilling out onto the street even with the rickety doors firmly shut.

When they finally stop, it’s at a run down building, the sign hanging askew and declaring it to be an inn called the Royal Oak.

Arthur eyes it warily. “You think we’ll be safe here?”

Merlin shoots him a smile. “It’s as good as anywhere,” he says as he steps forward, pushing open the door. “Besides, it’s not for long. We’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.”

The inn keeper is a sour-faced woman with greasy hair, who eyes them suspiciously but asks no questions. Merlin pays her with a handful of coins of the old currency still used by the lower people and the woman hands them a honest to god key, bulky and slightly rusty around the edges.

Taking the rickety ascender one floor up, they find their designated room and Arthur follows Merlin inside once the door is unlocked. It’s small and smells of damp and a hint of mould. The bed is wedged against the wall furthest from the single, grated window and the only other furniture is a rickety chair. Arthur puts down his bag and they both shed their cloaks, Merlin bunching his up on the narrow windowsill as a makeshift bed for Aithusa, who promptly burrows into it and curls herself into a ball, head tucked beneath one of her spindly wings.

With the cloak gone, Arthur can now see that the red he’d glimpsed beneath it earlier is actually the cardigan Arthur had given Merlin on the day he’d left. It’s clean now, the tear along the arm nowhere to be seen and Arthur’s chest floods with warmth at the knowledge that Merlin has been wearing something of Arthur’s in the time they’ve been apart.

He steps closer, smoothes his palms along Merlin’s sides, over the expensive fabric of the cardigan. Arthur can still feel Merlin’s ribs, but they aren’t as prominent as the last time he’d held him, thank the gods.

“You look different,” Arthur says softly, reaches up to Merlin’s head now, threads his fingers into tick, black strands. “Your hair…” He feels it sliding against his palm. “I like it. Covers your ridiculous ears.” He tucks a loose strand behind it. “I’ve missed your ears,” he whispers, no more than a breath, tracing one with the tip of his finger and the other with his tongue, leaning in close to press his lips to soft, warm skin.

Merlin gasps, says _Arthur_ , like a prayer, and Arthur can’t help but pull him closer, pressing their bodies together and letting his lips land on whatever they can find. An earlobe, the soft spot just behind, the long stretch of Merlin’s irresistible neck-

“I’ve missed you,” Arthur says again, because it’s still true, will always be true - and the ache is fresh enough that the lingering sting has yet to fade. “So much. Thought I was going crazy without you.”

Merlin turns his head, buries his own face in Arthur’s neck, before they both can’t stand it anymore and seek out each other’s lips. It’s wet and messy and Arthur sucks Merlin’s bottom lip into his mouth and makes it even wetter and messier.

“The wait was driving me insane,” Merlin murmurs, words muffled between their lips, but Arthur catches them all, takes them straight from his mouth with his own. “I almost sneaked away one time, but my mum caught me and after that they all but sat on me to keep me put.”

Finding a way beneath the hem of Merlin’s tshirt, Arthur palms the warm skin underneath. “I’m glad,” he says, leaning their foreheads together. “I don't want you to risk yourself for me. Never again, Merlin.”

Merlin tilts his head, kisses Arthur again. “I can't promise you that.” And again. “It's my destiny to protect you, and even if it wasn't there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe.”

Arthur draws back enough to give Merlin an intent look. “We keep each other safe, Merlin.”

Merlin smiles, then leans in again, breath hot against Arthur’s jaw and his lips even hotter as they press an open mouthed kiss right there, at the soft skin beneath his ear. Arthur’s breath hitches, his hands sliding further up along Merlins soft, soft skin.

The sharp edge of Merlin’s teeth against Arthur’s throat has him arching into the feel of it, a groan stuck somewhere in his chest, and just like that the urgency from their initial reunion slams home once more. Suddenly nothing is fast enough, close enough - Arthur almost tears Merlin’s tshirt in his haste and neither if them can stop kissing the other long enough to get get any effective undressing done. Seams give protesting sounds and Arthur’s sure that his fly might be beyond repair after Merlin tears into it, but then Merlin’s hand is slipping on the wet head of his cock and Arthur couldn’t give less of a fuck.

He makes a harsh, choked sound and pushes forward, fucks into the tight grip of Merlin’s gorgeous hand. His lips close around the small mark he’d left on Merlin’s neck before and he sucks on it again, feeling faintly vampiric but not caring as Merlin groans, tilts his head to bare his neck further and drags Arthur’s mouth closer by threading his free hand into Arthur’s hair. Arthur can feel the hot hardness of Merlin’s cock, still encased in his jeans as it presses against Arthur’s leg. Pressing into it, Arthur earns himself another groan, Merlin’s grip on Arthur’s cock slackening briefly.

Their next kiss is wet and open, their lips hardly touching properly before Arthur’s tongue thrusts forward into Merlin’s mouth. Merlin’s lips close around it, sucking it in deeper and Arthur makes some unidentifiable noise as they both stumble on their way towards the bed.

They manage to knock over the chair, muttering a string of unintelligible word fragments into each other’s mouths that all end up being something along the line if _take it off_ and _off, off, right now_ and _Merlin please_ and _Arthur, Arthur now_ until Merlin seemingly remembers the fact that he has magic and has the clothes disappear from their bodies. It’s a shock, all of their naked skin meeting in one hot, tingling rush and Arthur barely has the time to comprehend it before they’re toppling onto the lumpy bed, the mattress so thin that the springs beneath dig into Arthur’s back as he lands.

Merlin follows him down, all digging springs forgotten as his mouth closes around one of Arthur’s nipples and sucks it into his mouth. Arthur groans harshly, arching into it and grabs onto Merlin’s longer hair, loving how easy it is to hold on like this. Heat claws down Arthur’s spine and he wants, he _wants_ -

Merlin’s mouth releases him, only to come up and kiss him, hot and filthy, and Arthur slackens his jaw to get Merlin deeper. Merlin swipes at the roof of his mouth, the back of his teeth, before withdrawing a little, mumbling something into his mouth, asking what-

“-do you want?” And Merlin’s thigh slides between his own, pressing against Arthur’s hard, naked cock. “Arthur, what do you-”

“You,” Arthur gasps, parting his legs and drawing Merlin in between them, locking them around Merlin’s own and rocking up to get more, _more_. Their cocks meet in a slick grind and Merlin whimpers and presses closer, just as Arthur says, “I want you. Want you inside me.”

Merlin’s hips jerk against his and his groan is almost pained. 

“Fuck, gods, Arthur,” he says, pants it breathlessly into Arthur’s neck as he sucks a biting kiss into it. “You’re going to kill me.”

Arthur turns his head, catches Merlin’s lips in a wet kiss and revels in the taste of him. Bracing himself over Arthur, Merlin slows the kiss, deepening it and Arthur lets his head sink back into the scratchy bedding, tilting his head into a better angle even as he feels Merlin tremble with the effort to stay still.

“Are you-” Merlin starts, barely enough room between their lips to form the words properly.

Arthur slits his eyes open to give him a glare. “If you’re about to ask me if I’m sure, I’m going to hit you with one of these pillows. They sure feel hard enough to knock some sense into you.”

Merlin huffs out a laugh, hot breath washing over Arthur’s face and his lips are still stretched into a smile when they meet Arthur’s own again. “Have you ever-”

Arthur nips at his lips. “You know I haven’t.” 

They hadn’t talked much about Arthur’s past between the sheets, mainly because there’s hardly anything to tell. There’d been a few ill-advised fumblings at uni and then there’d been Sophia and after _that_ , Arthur had mostly stayed as far away from anything closer than a handshake. And even if Arthur had been someone to enjoy casual sex - which he isn’t - then his trust issues in general and after Sophia in particular certainly put a damper on things.

“Hey,” Merlin says softly, cupping Arthur’s jaw. “We don’t have to-”

Arthur gives him a quelling look, takes his hand and kisses it, before threading their fingers together. “I want to.” He looks up at Merlin’s face, frowning a little. “Unless you don’t-”

Merlin kisses him. “Of course I do, you prat,” he murmurs against Arthur’s lips.

Arthur can’t help grinning and would’ve rolled his eyes if he weren’t so busy tugging Merlin deeper into the kiss. Their hips hitch together and Arthur gasps into it, his hands sliding down to Merlin’s hips to dig ten points of insistent pressure into the skin there, before moving to the meat of his arse, dragging him into a series of bone-melting grinds that leave both of them breathless and desperate.

“Merlin,” Arthur gasps as he presses his leaking cock against Merlin’s stomach, shifting one of his legs higher up Merlin’s side to get get his hand where he wants it.

Merlin licks at his lip, shifting obediently, before reaching up and snatching both of the horribly saggy, lumpy pillows from above Arthur’s head. Arthur eyes them disdainfully, but accommodates them when Merlin stuffs them under his hips to improve their angle. It’s only when Merlin’s fingers are finally, _finally_ sliding up the inside of Arthur’s thigh that he remembers that they need-

“-lube?”

But Arthur promptly forgets that Merlin actually needs his mouth to answer, instead catching it in another kiss as Merlin’s fingertip reaches the rim of Arthur’s hole, tracing it before pushing gently, a soft pressure along the outside that has Arthur make a strange, whimpery sound and press further into the sensation.

“I can take care of that,” Merlin says, lips sliding to Arthur’s cheek, then the line of his jaw, nipping gently. “This will feel a bit strange.”

Arthur hardly has the time to register the warning, when something hot and tingling floods his insides, making him pant and arch, and then he’s suddenly _dripping_.

“ _Ah_ ,” Arthur moans eloquently and Merlin kisses him gently, rubs the slick into the rim of his hole and making Arthur burn with want. He bucks almost wildly into Merlin’s touch and Merlin pushes their hips together and lets the tip of his index finger slip inside Arthur in a smooth slide.

It feels full, but somehow not enough and when Merlin curls his finger deeper all Arthur can think of is _more, now_.

“Okay?” Merlin asks, breathless, dropping kiss after tiny kiss on any part of Arthur’s he can reach.

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur pants, twisting his hips to get Merlin deeper still. “I swear to- if you don’t get on with it, Merlin, I’ll- _oh-_ ”

Heat sparks down Arthur spine and pools in his gut, his cock jerking desperately as it leaks between them.

“You were saying?” Merlin asks lightly, curling his finger again and laughing breathlessly into Arthur’s neck as he hits the same spot, making Arthur all but see stars-

“Merlin, Merlin please,” Arthur moans, clutching at Merlin’s arm, his hair, dragging their lips together in a messy kiss as he gasps _I need it now_ into Merlin’s mouth.

“Shhh,” Merlin murmurs, adding another finger and Arthur can feel the slick drip out of him, dampening the pillows under his hips. The scratchy sheets are even rougher now, sticking to Arthur’s sweat-slick back as he writhes. “Just a little bit more, just a- I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Arthur says, turns his head to press his lips to Merlin’s temple and lick at the salty taste there. “You won’t.”

But Merlin, the stubborn bastard, doesn’t relent. He insists on getting three fingers in first, driving them both a little insane with it and Arthur barely even remembers his own name by the time Merlin finally, _fucking finally_ , slides into him.

The pillows help, so does Merlin’s spell - the slide is smooth and Arthur’s so wet and stretched he hardly feels any burn at all. Merlin’s magic tingles along his skin, then slips underneath, making Arthur feel as though the blood in his veins is on fire, hot strands of power so full with love Arthur can hardly breathe from the feel of it.

Merlin bottoms out, moaning into Arthur’s mouth, his muscles tight and trembling with the strain. Arthur bucks up against him, tired of waiting, and digs his fingers into Merlin’s arse as he jerks him in close, pushing him in harder, deeper. 

They both lose it a bit after that.

The bed makes a sharp, clanging noise as the rickety frame crashes into the wall, but Arthur hardly hears it, can do nothing but arch his back and moan himself hoarse, hardly even aware of what he’s saying, instead listening to Merlin all but sobbing in pleasure above him, pressing the shape of Arthur’s name into Arthur’s mouth, his throat, the slope of his shoulder where he bites down in a way that has Arthur shuddering and so close, _so close, fuck, yes, yes, just like that-_

Merlin falls apart above him and Arthur clings to him, holds him as he jerks and writhes through it, Arthur’s cock trapped between them until the combined pleasure of Merlin’s throaty groans against his ear, the friction between them and his hole even slicker now, flooded with the hot feel of Merlin’s come-

Arthur doesn’t remember biting the savage mark into Merlin’s neck, only sees it later, when everything feels slick and sore and the sheets are sticking to both of them, their breathing finally resembling something that isn’t harsh panting barely even enough to fill their lungs.

They’ve somehow managed to become a tangled heap of sweaty limbs, one pillow on the floor, the other - for some inexplicable reason - digging into Arthur’s elbow where his arm is curved around Merlin’s shoulders.

The room is almost pitch-black now, only the faintest glow from a wayward street lantern lighting the tiny window on the opposite wall. Arthur turns his head, closing his eyes as he buries his nose in Merlin’s hair and inhales his scent. Merlin’s hand curves around Arthur’s shoulder, his palm resting right where the print of his teeth is still branded into Arthur’s skin.

 _Just for a minute_ , Arthur thinks, hazy and content and whole again, after three months of agonising incompleteness. _Just for a-_

*

Arthur wakes to the muffled sounds of the street and a quiet, snuffling snoring that it takes him a minute to realise is Aithusa, still asleep on the window ledge. Merlin’s breathing is soft and even, but Arthur isn’t sure if he’s asleep, gently palms along Merlin’s spine and receives a sleepy kiss on his collarbone in return.

They’re still stretched out across the bed, the sheets rumpled more than ever and tangled between both their legs, barely covering either of them. Arthur’s too lazy to draw them up, too content to move at all. It’s been far too long since he felt anything like it, he’s almost forgotten what it’s like.

Merlin shifts against him, sending a lazy shiver down Arthur’s back as he grazes his fingers over Arthur’s chest; up, down, then up again until his palm comes to rest just above Arthur’s breastbone. He props his chin there, looking at Arthur with half-lidded eyes, nothing more than a faint glint in the darkness of the room.

Somewhere beyond the window, raised voices are shouting at each other, one of them cursing viciously, before they fade into the distance.

Arthur curls his fingers into Merlin’s shaggy hair, still so strange, but slowly becoming familiar now. Merlin leans into the touch.

“Where exactly will we be going?” Arthur asks softly, wary of disturbing the peace between them, but unable to keep from getting answers now that he can.

Merlin sighs, pushing into Arthur’s hand like a cat when it stills and Arthur huffs, but continues his petting.

“Fort,” Merlin says, his eyes drifting almost completely closed when Arthur drops the caress lower, drawing slow circles against the nape of his neck. “We have settlements there as well as Dál Riata.”

Arthur’s hand stills, his palm fitted against the soft curve where neck meets shoulder. 

“The Barren Isle?” he asks, frowning.

The Barren Isle is a stretch of land in the very north of Albion that was all but severed from the mainland during the Devastating Years, after several earthquakes caused big chunks from the coast to crumble away as the water levels rose. It’s the only place that still has some mountains and it was more or less abandoned after AD. Arthur is sure most people have forgotten it even exists.

There’s nothing there, hasn’t been for many years now. No electric lines, no people - or at least that’s what Arthur has always believed, that’s what everyone’s been told.

“It’s not actually barren, you know,” Merlin says softly into the space between them, his thumb following the curve of Arthur’s collarbone. “Albion Council just likes calling it that to keep people away and because the protection shield of the city doesn’t reach that far out. Which is exactly why we chose to settle there in the first place.”

“I didn’t know there’s quite so many of you,” he admits.

The curve of Merlin’s lips turns into something harder, more bitter and at odds with his soft mouth. It hurts Arthur a little to see it.

“Despite all that bollocks about magic being extinct - it wasn’t actually completely gone. A hundred years or so after AD, children with the potential for magic started popping up everywhere. At first it wasn’t really that noticeable and they mostly left them be as long as they stayed put and kept to themselves. Albion Council had only been established a bit over sixty years at that point and with the government so new, the Head Minister at the time hadn’t wanted to shake the people up all over again - not after finally having them back under some form of control.”

Arthur is silent for a moment.

“This is quite a different story from what they’re teaching in schools.”

Merlin snorts. “I’m not surprised.” He runs a finger over the dip between Arthur’s chin and mouth and Arthur kisses it, making Merlin smile, his dark expression lightening. “It’s what they teach us, though.”

Arthur takes his hand in his own, resting them both back on his chest. “So what changed?”

Merlin sighs. “We were suddenly not so few anymore. Magic users came together, started leaving the cities and re-waking the Old Religion. After that came the settlements up north and suddenly the druids were a thing again and the government pretty much panicked. They put endless restrictions on the people from Below, locking up anyone who was in any way involved with the druids and banned trade or communication with them of any kind.”

Arthur feels sick, gently shifting Merlin so he can sit up, clenching his hands into fists as he feels the hot flash of anger clawing up from his chest.

“And all this time, the people on the Upper level had no idea, because obviously they’re the ones with the money, the ones that keep the economy running and the pigs at parliament fed. No wonder the people from Below are so riled up and ready to attack the ignorant pricks going down there to take a look at the freak show,” he spits out, making an angry motion with his hand. So much is starting to make sense now and Arthur feels disgusted and ashamed, sick with the knowledge how the upper people have lived in such complete ignorance; always consuming and never looking farther than their own ridiculously pompous life-styles. “And not one of those bastards in parliament has thought to do anything about it, patiently waiting out their time as an MP until they can pass on their shit to the next one down the line without having needed to lift so much as a finger! I can’t believe-” He breaks off, unable to continue, his throat drawn tight with fury.

Merlin leans in against him, kissing his shoulder and rubbing soothingly at his arm.

“For better or worse, people know about us now,” he says quietly. “And even though Kilgharrah hasn’t made us very popular with the general public, at least it’s out now.”

Arthur clenches his jaw. “They’ll milk the dragon-attack thing for all its worth. It’s been three months and the media’s still all over it.” 

“The fact alone that there’s a dragon at all should work to our advantage,” Merlin points out. “Hopefully it’ll make people question what they think they know.”

Arthur hopes so as well, but taking recent events into consideration, his positive thinking isn’t exactly up to par. Sighing, he leans over towards the nightstand and switches on the bedside lamp - frowning all the way at having to do it manually and flicking something as ridiculous as a switch - then grabs the closest lump of a pillow and wrinkles his nose at it, before unceremoniously turning it over and punching it into shape as best he can against the headboard.

Shifting upwards along the scratchy sheets, Arthur settles against the pillow and immediately makes a face when both a spring from underneath and the headboard behind him dig uncomfortably into him.

Merlin looks on the verge of bursting into laughter and Arthur scowls at him pre-emptively.

Merlin, of course, ignores him. 

“Having trouble there, your highness?” he all but giggles, prompting Arthur into grabbing for the remaining pillow and chucking it at his face.

Merlin ducks and it misses, but a flick of his fingers has it shooting back from where its fallen and make straight for _Arthur’s_ head instead. Cursing, Arthur throws himself to the side and the pillow thumps into the wall behind him. Merlin is outright pissing himself now.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, barely keeping his own grin off his face.

“And you call me a girl!” Merlin says, still laughing. “When it’s you that gets all princessy as soon as you’re taken away from your super posh flat!”

Arthur glowers at him, then rearranges the pillow once more. It doesn’t really help.

“Princessy isn’t a word, Merlin.”

Merlin grins at him, then leans in to plant a sloppy kiss on Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur makes a face and bats him away, but when Merlin comes back to kiss him properly, his protests grow increasingly feeble, until he’s parting his lips for Merlin’s tongue and drawing him in closer against his side. Somehow, with Merlin’s lips sliding over his own and coaxing Arthur’s own tongue into the hot wetness of Merlin’s mouth, the pillow suddenly doesn’t seem half as lumpy and he can’t even feel the spring anymore.

Merlin ends up straddling Arthur on the narrow bed, both pillows now stuffed behind Arthur’s back where he’s leaning back against the headboard, with Merlin’s lips tracing the rough line of Arthur’s stubble and his fingers back to drawing idle patterns on Arthur’s chest and shoulders. He traces Arthur’s muscles, drawing back a little to raise his eyebrows.

“Look at you, all butched up,” Merlin teases, dipping his head to draw his tongue along the same path his fingers had just taken.

Arthur shivers and fights down a flush. “I’m not- and butched up isn’t a word, either, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. “Well, there’s certainly more of these than three months ago. And you’ve lost some weight as well.”

Arthur scowls at him. “Are you telling me I was fat?”

Merlin laughs at him, eyes alight with affection and mischievousness. “Of course not. I’ll just have to cook for you again, then you’ll be back to your old shape in no time.”

Arthur pinches him, but it only results in Merlin curling towards him, giggling as Arthur hits a ticklish spot. It’s so unexpected that it makes Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise, unable to stop the unbidden thought of how this isn’t the exact same Merlin he had been living with before, not the Merlin he’d first met a few months ago.

And Arthur had known this, of course, had known that the real Merlin comes with a whole new set of memories and experiences and - Arthur thinks, heart heavy with the knowledge - the trauma of being captured and held captive by his father for over ten years of his life. Of experiencing the world only through the eyes of others while Merlin himself had been trapped underground, strapped to a bed and being drained of his energy while drugged to the gills.

All of it makes Arthur feel suddenly terribly inadequate, out of his depth in a way that he hasn’t felt like with Merlin for months.

Catching his expression, Merlin sobers suddenly, frowning a little as he fits his palm to Arthur’s cheek. 

“Arthur, what?” he asks softly and Arthur hadn’t meant to alarm him, to ruin the first truly light-hearted moment since they found each other again.

He tries to banish it with a headshake, catches Merlin’s lips in a soft kiss and takes his hand. “It’s nothing.”

But Merlin knows him too well and his face has already darkened in realisation.

“You’re freaking out about the android thing, aren’t you?”

Arthur feels his jaw clench, his eyes not quite able to meet Merlin’s searching gaze. 

“I’m not freaking out,” he says. Merlin shifts, makes as though he wants to slide off Arthur’s lap, but Arthur doesn’t want to lose this connection, quickly wraps his arms around him to keep him close and turns his face into Merlin’s neck. “I’m not freaking out,” he says again.

Merlin sighs, but his muscles relax and he curls into Arthur, around him, winds his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and presses in close. Arthur lets out a breath when he feels the familiar feel of Merlin’s fingers in his hair. For a long moment, that’s all they do, but Arthur knows that Merlin won’t leave it at that, has had enough disagreements with him to know that while Arthur likes to kill things with silence, Merlin wants to dissect, wants to get it all out and not give anything the chance to fester.

When Merlin does speak up again, his voice is just a little more than warm breath against Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Arthur I-” he starts, then stops only to try again after a moment. “This whole android-not-android thing… I know that it must be weird for you. I mean, you haven’t said anything and you- actually you’ve taken all of this really well, but I just- I’ve been meaning to tell you that-” A hot rush of breath hits Arthur’s skin, heavy with frustration. “Fuck”

“Hey,” Arthur says gently, drawing back enough to catch Merlin’s eye and running soothing palms over the length of his spine, the gentle ridges of his ribs. “It’s alright.”

Merlin shakes his head, eyes bright and his grip on Arthur tightening convulsively.

“No. No I need you to know this.” Merlin takes an audible breath. “I need you to know that I’m still me.” He licks his lips. “What I mean is, it’s always been me. When we first met and when we were living together- even though I didn’t remember, it was still _me_. Everything I said, I still mean it. All of it.” He looks at Arthur then, and it almost feels as though he can see right into him and to his soul. “I love you, Arthur. And I’m yours. The only difference is that now I know that I’ve always known that, even before I met you.”

Merlin pauses and Arthur is glad for it, his chest brimming over with emotion and his head reeling trying to take everything in. Merlin smoothes back Arthur’s hair, an absent caress, before his hands re-settle, resting low on Arthur’s arms.

“The prophecy, it isn’t actually about me you know,” he says softly. Arthur stares at him, having trouble following the line of conversation. “Your father had it all wrong. The prophesy, it’s about _you_. Emrys is here for you, Arthur, to help you as you lead us to bring about change - to bring magic back to Albion.” He looks up into Arthur’s eyes. “You’re the reason I was born. I’ve always known that, not just because they told me growing up, but even before that I-” He swallows, his thumbs starting up a slow caress against Arthur’s skin and making him shiver. “I’ve always had this feeling, yeah? Ever since I can remember, like there was someone waiting for me - like _I_ was waiting for someone. And of course I couldn’t remember any of that when we met, but it still- it all just kind of fell into place, you know? I can’t really explain it I just-”

Arthur takes his hands and Merlin falls silent, staring at him with wide, almost frightened eyes, and even though Arthur’s mind is still fighting to accept all these things about prophesies and destinies, there’s one thing he knows for certain.

“You don’t have to explain it,” he says, surprised how steady his voice comes out, even though his throat is so dry that every word scrapes uncomfortably against it on its way out. 

Merlin grips him tightly, Arthur’s ring cutting into them both at the force of his hold. “I don’t?” 

He sounds so hopeful, on the brim of relief, and Arthur pulls him close and hugs him tightly. He can feel the small tremors running through Merlin’s body, knows how vulnerable he is right now, completely laid bare for Arthur to see, and Arthur holds him all the tighter for it, determined to protect him with every breath in his body.

“No, I-” Arthur sighs, draws back enough to touch their foreheads together. And even though that means that he can barely see more than the blue blur of Merlin’s eyes, Arthur still doesn’t draw back, unable to break the connection. “All of this, I felt it too. I didn’t really realise it, not at first, and I might not have been able to put it into words as well as you, but-” He licks his lips, has to close his eyes as he lets go of the last of his admission. “That’s what it is. And it’s what I did. Waiting…I was waiting for you, too.”

And Merlin all but folds into him then, his palms warm and soft on Arthur’s face as he brings their lips together, kissing Arthur as though he’d die if he didn’t and taking all of Arthur’s breath right from his lungs- And Arthur can do nothing but moan into it and draw him in deeper, kissing back just as desperately, for the first time really, truly feeling their connection as it reverberates through his bones, feels Merlin’s magic shoot out towards him, into him, curling around each of Arthur’s cells, his heart-

Arthur draws back, gasping like a drowning man.

Merlin smooths back his hair with unsteady hands, fingers trembling as they flutter over Arthur in a series of restless caresses, his lips pressing to Arthur’s temple as as he whispers apologies, says _sorry, I didn’t mean-_ and _sorry, sorry._

And Arthur gently shushes him, tells him to

“-stop being an idiot,” even as his voice comes out slightly shaky. And then, because he needs to say it, the words all but bursting from his every pore, “I love you, too.” And then again, because once just doesn’t feel like enough. “I love you, Merlin.”

And Merlin hugs him, holds him tight as he huffs a trembling laugh into his neck and Arthur asks _What?_ and then Merlin kisses the hollow of his throat and murmurs,

“Nothing, it’s just- You’ve never actually said it before.”

“What but-” Arthur draws back enough to look into Merlin’s eyes, chest suddenly too tight. “You knew, though, didn’t you? You-”

Merlin makes a soothing noise in the back of his throat, kissing the bridge of Arthur’s nose. 

“I did know,” he says and the pressure on Arthur’s chest releases. “But it’s still nice to hear you say it.”

And somehow Arthur manages to roll his eyes, nipping gently at Merlin’s lips. “Such a girl, I swear.”

“Shut up,” Merlin says, nipping right back.

Arthur can feel his lips curve, an eyebrow rising towards his hairline. “So you don’t want me to say it again?”

Merlin’s expression smoothes, softens and he’s so beautiful it almost hurts Arthur to look at him.

“I do,” he says, barely more than a whisper as he looks into Arthur’s eyes. “I do. Please. Tell me again.”

And Arthur does, shapes the words against Merlin’s throat, and the irresistible curve of his lips. Presses them into his mouth as they sink back into scratchy sheets and lumpy pillows, that could be a pile of rocks for all Arthur cares.

_I love you._

*

The next morning finds Arthur with the sheet tangled in his legs - _again_ \- and one arm hanging off the bed. He’s surprised he hasn’t fallen off completely, unused to the small size of the mattress, but his affinity for plastering himself to Merlin probably helped in keeping him put. Talking of which- reaching out towards the space next to him, all he finds are cold sheets.

Suddenly wide awake, Arthur sits up and looks around, but finds the room empty, no trace of either Merlin or Aithusa. On any other day, the discovery might’ve alarmed him more, but he can still feel the warm, pulsating _something_ in the centre of his chest, can practically see the golden thread stretching out before him that he knows would lead him straight to Merlin, were he to follow it.

Rubbing at his sticky eyes, Arthur tries to chase some of the fuzzy feeling of lingering sleep away as he sits up. Squinting a little to be able to see anything beyond the grated window, Arthur finds that it’s barely light out, night having only just tipped over into dawn - though he knows that it’s probably lighter than it appears. The days here always seem to come later than above, the sun having to climb up higher on order to pierce through the layers of gritty smoke and reach all the way down here.

Still, it couldn’t be later than six or seven in the morning.

Arthur fights the urge to drag the covers up and curl back under them and instead forces himself to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. The morning air is crisp, making Arthur skin prickle as he shivers. He’s never spent a night somewhere with no environmental controls and he hadn’t expected it to be quite this cold this time of the year, certainly doesn’t expect the shock the icy feel of the floor sends up through his bare feet.

He shudders and all but flings himself across the room towards his clothes. Apparently, Merlin had picked them up before he left, putting them over the back of the rickety chair in a not quite neat pile. It makes Arthur smile stupidly when he sees it, affection blooming inside his chest.

He tugs his clothes on quickly, mourning the absence of a shower, but he’s not about to brave an encounter with that rusty contraption lower people call shower stalls. Neither is he very fond of the prospect of freezing his balls off. Once dressed, Arthur makes his way to the matchbox passing as a bathroom. He eyes the sink wearily, relieved when the water simply starts running when he puts his hands out, though jumping when it comes out freezing.

Cursing, Arthur quickly scrubs his face, then fishes through his pockets with numb fingers, looking for a dental capsule he’s sure must be there. He finds it, chagrined that he knows it’s the last, and pops it into his mouth. It melts instantly, minty froth filling his mouth. He spits it out and rinses his mouth, relieved at the now clean feeling of his teeth and all traces of morning breath finally gone.

He goes back to the main room, absently carding his fingers through his hair to get it into some semblance of tidiness. It’s gotten long, Arthur thinks. Longer than he’s had it in years, really. At least not since his father had started commenting on it, telling Arthur to either grow it out ‘properly’ or cut it. _It makes you look like one of those people from Below_ , he’d told Arthur, a surly curl to his lip. _You hold a position of importance in our society, you can’t be seen traipsing around like a savage._ It’s suddenly the best idea in the world not to ever cut his hair again.

That’s how Merlin finds him a minute later when he comes through the door, standing in the middle of the room with his fingers still stuck in his hair.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, clearly amused and brimming with affection, making the thread between them pulse. “What are you doing?”

“Pondering hairstyle choices,” Arthur says dryly, and just that little self-deprecatingly, pushing all lingering thoughts of his father away.

Aithusa peers at him from her place on Merlin’s shoulder and when she sees Arthur looking at her, she gives a purr-growl in acknowledgement.

Merlin laughs and crosses the room, closing the distance between them. His fingers are gentle in Arthur’s hair, his body pressing warmly into Arthur’s side as he cards blunt nails against his scalp. It makes Arthur shiver and tilt his head, wanting to keep the feel of it.

“It’ll look good on you,” Merlin says softly, soothing over the raw wound in Arthur’s chest that still gapes every time he thinks about his father.

“Everything looks good on me,” Arthur says, letting the underlying gravity go by making himself sound as unconcerned and arrogant as possible.

Even so, he’s already smiling, even before Merlin rolls his eyes and replies.

“Your modesty is truly humbling,” he says wryly, that familiar teasing glint in his eye that Arthur can’t ever get enough of.

Arthur can’t help it, he leans in to catch Merlin’s lips in a soft kiss. Merlin, for all his annoyance, curves his palm against Arthur’s nape and draws him in a little deeper, nipping at Arthur’s bottom lip, before briefly flickering his tongue across it to soothe the sting. Their connection flares, hot and bright, and makes it hard to pull back.

“This isn’t going to go away, is it?” Arthur murmurs, tracing one of Merlin’s ears with a fingertip.

Merlin shakes his head, all humour gone. “No. Does it bother you? I could try and block-”

“No,” Arthur cuts in quickly and it comes out rather more forceful than intended. He gentles his voice, leans in for another kiss. “No, I like it. I was just wondering, that’s all.”

Merlin’s smile is so bright it leaves Arthur ridiculously dazzled. Aithusa purrs her approval, clearly feeling ignored and seeking to establish herself in the conversation. Merlin laughs and scratches her chin.

“Alright, fine,” he says. “Breakfast it is.”

Arthur perks up at that. “You brought breakfast?”

Merlin reaches into the folds of his cloak and produces a small bag.

“Coffee, croissants and muffins,” he says proudly. “I’ll need to get some food into both of you before we set out, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Arthur snatches the bag from Merlin and opens it with eager fingers. He hadn’t even noticed how hungry he actually is, but his stomach’s certainly rumbling right now.

They settle back on the bed, seeing as it’s the only option the room provides, and Arthur has a hard time trying not to stare at the unfamiliar sight of Merlin drinking coffee and stuffing his face with a muffin.

“You still haven’t told me how we’re supposed to get there,” Arthur says, trying to distract himself from Merlin’s full lips as they wrap around one of his fingers, sucking off a stray bit of melted chocolate. “Even if I wouldn’t be arrested on sight, no shuttle goes all the way up there and we don’t have a car.”

“Oh, we don’t need any of that,” Merlin says cheerfully, reaching for another muffin. “We’ll walk.”

“Walk!” Arthur echoes, incredulously. “It’s over 400 miles away!”

Merlin waves him off. “If we leave right after breakfast we can probably make it by nightfall. If we don’t meet any trouble on the way that is.”

“By- _Merlin_.” Arthur stares at him, aghast. “Have you lost your mind? How is that even possible?”

Merlin just gives him a look, then raises a hand and wriggles his fingers in what he must think is a meaningful way.

Arthur frowns. “How is that going to work?”

Merlin grins and bites into his muffin, then breaks off a piece and feeds it to Aithusa. She munches on it with enthusiasm, looking terribly pleased.

“Eat your breakfast and then I’ll show you.”

*

The air outside is still crisp when they emerge from the inn. It doesn’t feel at all like the beginning of summer, but Arthur supposes that three months of are probably a good enough reason to explain the unusually cool weather. The ground beneath their boots is soft, mud clinging to the hem of their cloaks even after barely two steps.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” Merlin says as he threads his fingers through Arthur’s.

Arthur grips back, squeezing gently in response and they set out at a more or less brisk pace. People pass them, some hooded, some obviously enjoying the weather despite the cool breeze wafting through the alleys. Winters must be harsh down here, Arthur thinks.

At first, nothing at all happens and they simply pass shops and stalls, winding their way through narrow streets seemingly aimlessly. But Merlin appears to know where they’re going, so Arthur bites his tongue and doesn’t comment. It’s only when they emerge from a shortcut through a dark, cramped alley that Arthur finally notices the change.

The stalls are aligned differently, the air even worse than before and when he cranes his neck and looks up, squinting past gritty smog-clouds, he can just about make out the vague shapes of the industrial district above. The industrial district which lies at the very north of the city - even with a hover-car it would’ve taken them longer than this. They can’t have been walking for more than fifteen or twenty minutes at most.

“How-” Arthur starts, then narrows his eyes a little. “Are you _teleporting_ us?”

Merlin throws him an amused glance. “We’d hardly need to be walking if I could teleport us.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that we’re just covering a bit more ground with each step, that’s all.”

After that, Arthur is more careful about looking at their surroundings, watches them change around them. It’s a blink-it-and-you’ll-miss-it experience, one second they’d be walking along this street and in the next they’d be somewhere altogether different. It’s dizzying trying to keep track and Arthur has to give up after a while.

They make it through Mercia and Elmet, then halt in Northumbria for a light lunch. Arthur’s feet are aching. He might be used to exercise, and spent most of the last three months working out, but he certainly isn’t used to walking like this - especially not laden down with a heavy cloak and bag and with the wind growing in vigour the further north they get.

By the late afternoon they’re as far as Strathclyde and slow down their pace a little, and when they finally reach the edge of Albion’s protection shield, the sky’s just starting to darken. 

The protection shield had originally been devised sometime after AD in the event that it might happen again. It’s been constantly improved since then, keeping big parts of the coast from being flooded during the winter storms and Albion Council has been debating for the better part of the year whether they should upgrade it to something more weather-controllable - but they’ve yet to come to a decision.

Arthur, for his part, thinks the notion ridiculous. If things continue this way, they might just as well move into a pod and stay there.

They pass the most northern shuttle station and beyond that, Arthur can make out the generators marking the edge of the shield. It’s mostly invisible, though he knows what to look for and his specialist’s eye detects it easily. When he sees the manned northern border control, Arthur feels his muscles grow taut, his shoulders aching as tension frizzes through them.

Merlin must’ve felt it too, because he gives Arthur’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“They can’t see us,” he says and it makes Arthur relax just a little, makes walking on easier.

He almost expects them to pass through the shield, but their surroundings shift before they even hit it - and even though Arthur’s grown used to everything around him changing from one step to the next after hours of the same, nothing could’ve prepared him for what happens next.

One minute Arthur can still see the shield looming over them, the next they’re suddenly standing on rocky ground with the sea crashing against the cliffs behind them.

Arthur jumps in surprise and whirls around, almost slipping on the wet rocks.

Merlin steadies him quickly. “Careful, there.”

Arthur shoots him a glare. “ _Careful there?_ How about a little warning next time?”

“Sorry.” Merlin gives him one of his sheepish smiles. “I don’t always know where exactly we’ll land, only that it’ll be safe enough to walk on.”

“Very reassuring,” Arthur shoots back.

Beyond the broad stretch of sea, the city towers of Albion stretch towards the sky. With the daylight almost gone, the city lights and hover-tracks shine just that much brighter. Everything looks huge, much bigger than Arthur has ever perceived it. The sight is intimidating, foreboding almost. It makes a cold shiver crawl down his spine.

He takes a careful step closer to the edge, mindful of his footing, then another. He picks his way across the rocky path, avoiding the puddles as best he can. Merlin follows him silently, looking frustratingly steady for someone usually so clumsy.

He stops at the jagged edge, peering over it and down into the foaming ocean. The wind tugs at his hair and the air tastes of salt and something that feels like freedom. Arthur takes a deep breath, then another, filling his lungs until they feel like bursting before letting it all rush out of him again.

At his side, Merlin shivers as another gust of wind rushes past them, a few stray droplets of icy salt water rain down on them from below. Arthur looks at him, then, traces his features with his eyes in the fading light.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says, but what he means is _You’re beautiful_.

The way Merlin smiles at him, bright and open and brilliant, makes Arthur think he might have heard it anyway. Then he shudders again.

Arthur snorts. “C’mere, you lightweight.”

 He drags Merlin in close, and he comes easily, tucking himself against Arthur’s side as Arthur folds his cloak around them both. He tugs Merlin’s hood up, hears Aithusa growl in protest and gives her a pat before letting his hands drop to Merlin’s arms, rubbing some warmth back into them.

Merlin’s hands slip around his middle, his fingers cold against Arthur’s stomach, but Arthur only pulls him in closer. He looks back over the sea at the distant lights, the last traces of the sun gone and the sky ever darkening.

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” Merlin says softly, his voice almost drowned out by the crashing of the waves, barely more than a warm breath against Arthur’s cheek. “I used to lie on the roof of our house and look at the towers, wondering what it’s like to live there. I always thought,” He stops, then, and Arthur turns his head to look at him. 

He leans in a little closer, gently nuzzles against Merlin’s cheek, whispers “What?” against his chilled skin.

Merlin sighs, tilting his head into Arthur’s caress. 

“I always thought that if you’re that far up, all the way to the sky, that the stars must look brighter, closer. I told myself that if I ever managed to make it to one of the cities, I’d climb to the highest tower and surely then I’d be able to touch them. But when I got the chance, there where no stars at all.” Merlin pauses, his look somewhere far away, before he goes on, voice nothing more than a whisper and almost drowned out by the crashing of the waves. “Not a single star, Arthur. Only blinding lights and steep walls and the thought that if I ever fell, I’d be falling for a long time until I ever hit the ground.”

Arthur’s throat feels suddenly tight, his every breath as though it has to be forcefully dragged from his body. It makes his chest ache and his eyes sting and Arthur can do nothing but cradle Merlin’s cold face between his palms steal his breath instead, sealing their lips together. Merlin clutches at him as though he doesn’t ever want to let him go again and Arthur really, really hopes that’s what it is.

The thread between them pulses and grows taut, pulling them even closer together as it throbs in sync to both their hearts. Arthur can feel Merlin’s magic reaching for him and this time he welcomes it easily, slowly learning the feel of it, the way it seeps into his skin and becomes a part of Arthur as much as it’s a part of Merlin - melding them together.

When they finally part at least far enough to look at each other, Arthur’s lips are aching a little and he feels chilled to the bone despite the lingering tingling beneath his skin. The wind is even colder now, harsher without the lingering rays of the sun and the crashing of the waves sounds like thunder in the darkness below them.

“We should go,” Arthur says, they’re foreheads pressed together and his hands still cupping Merlin’s cheeks, unable to let go just yet.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, but doesn’t move.

*

By the time they finally move on, night has fallen and Merlin has conjured a witchlight, letting it float in front of them and illuminating their path, bathing it in silvery light.

The sky above them is lit with stars and Arthur’s eyes are glued to them, hardly paying attention to his feet, trusting Merlin to lead him as they pick their way across wide planes of rocks and grass. The moon is just a tiny sliver and Arthur marvels at the fact that tomorrow, he’ll be able to see how it’s grown. This is far better than any memograph or holo-projection could ever be, no simulation coming anywhere near the real thing.

“This is amazing,” Arthur says, craning his neck just a little further, ignoring the stiffness growing there from staying in the same position for so long.

“Wait till I take you for a spin with Kilgharrah,” Merlin says and Arthur doesn’t have to see his smile to know that it’s there. “It’s even better up there.”

The words finally register and Arthur’s head snaps towards Merlin.

“A spin?” Arthur says incredulously. “You want me to climb on the back of the dragon my father trapped and imprisoned? He probably hates my guts and will take the opportunity to throw me off from somewhere very high up.”

Merlin laughs and bumps their shoulders together.

“Aw, are you scared?” he coos, his free hand reaching over to pinch Arthur’s cheek. “Don’t worry, Arthur. I’ll protect you.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur bats him away, scowling, and shoves back. “I don’t get scared.”

Aithusa hisses in complaint from her perch on Merlin’s shoulder and Arthur gives her an apologetic stroke.

“Of course not,” Merlin says drily. “Not the great Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur stiffens suddenly, all humour gone.

“Don’t call me that,” he says quietly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the dimply lit path in front. “I’m no Pendragon. Not anymore. I’m just Arthur now.”

Merlin gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Alright,” he says. “But Arthur, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, as many times as it takes until you believe me. None of this is your fault. You didn’t know. All that matters is that you cared enough to find out and that when you did, you risked your life to save us. Not just that, but you gave it all up for my people. For me. So please stop blaming yourself.”

Arthur shakes his head and doesn’t say anything, because there’s nothing to be said. It all comes back to the fact that he didn’t find out sooner, that he was part of it and unable to see what was going on right under his nose. No, no he can’t stop blaming himself, can’t ever forgive himself for this.

*

Arthur hadn’t really been sure what to expect, but it certainly isn’t clusters of small, old fashioned houses.

Yellow light shines from the windows, of the type that Arthur has only ever seen in very old recordings. There’s porches and big back yards with tiny sheds, herbs and vegetables growing in neat rows. The street is unpaved, merely flattened earth trodden down by hundreds of feet walking along it every day. He even spots a small shop or two, a few pubs and something he thinks might be a smithy.

“I thought there aren’t any electrical lines here?” Arthur asks.

“There’s quite a few old ones from before AD,” Merlin says. “We tapped into them using magic, but now we’ve mostly started powering them with windmills a little way down by the coast. It’s not much, just enough for some basic lighting, one or two kitchen appliances - that sort of thing. But it’s better than nothing and indoor plumbing works, so that’s definitely a plus.”

Arthur, who’d already had trouble working the outdated facilities Below, can hardly fathom what living here must be like. He looks around, takes in cloaked people milling about, lingering in front of entrances and chatting happily. They look relaxed and content; completely at home. Here and there a dog or cat walks past, some accompanying people, some simply slinking in and out of shadows on their own. But the most intimidating sight must be the amount of horses. They’re everywhere; tied up in front of the pub, grazing behind houses and being led around or ridden.

Arthur supposes it makes sense, seeing as there’s really no other form of transportation and walking everywhere seems pretty tiresome. But even so, he can’t help but be wary of them. He can’t help but miss his car, though he immediately stomps down on the feeling and pushes it away, ashamed.

Merlin finally stops at one of the houses. It doesn’t look any different from all the others, but Arthur silently admits he might not be the best judge. Merlin releases his hand and though Arthur’s fingers are stiff and aching from holding on for so long, he still misses it when its gone. He watches as Merlin steps forward and knocks on the door; an actual wooden door with hinges and no scanner in sight. And Arthur barely has the time to wonder about the fact that it’s a bit strange that Merlin has to knock on the door of his own home, when it flies open.

It takes Arthur a moment to recognise who it is, because Morgana almost looks like an entirely different person.

Her hair is a lot shorter, pulled up in the simplest of ponytails that doesn’t even quite reach to her shoulder. There’s not a trace of make-up on her face and her nails are colourless against the wood of the door. Instead of one of her elaborate dresses, she’s wearing a simple green tunic over a pair of leggings as dark as her boots, which look sturdy and well-worn. The buckle on the belt around her slim waist is the only piece of ornament on her, an intricate design of interwoven vines and leaves.

She takes one look at them, before letting out a small sound and launching herself clear off the porch and straight into Arthur’s arms.

Arthur stumbles a little, unprepared for the force, but hugs her tightly all the same. Morgana has always been stronger than she looks and Arthur is reminded of that now when she nearly squeezes the breath from his lungs as she crushes him against her.

“Arthur,” she says, and Arthur’s heart clenches when he hears the way she sounds, clear and sharp - like _herself_. “I was so worried.”

Arthur closes his eyes and lets himself breathe in her familiar scent. That, at least, hasn’t changed at all.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m here now.”

Morgana draws back, her eyes overly bright as they flicker over his face. She touches his cheeks, then abruptly delivers a firm smack to his shoulder.

“Bloody _ow_ ,” Arthur says, rubbing the smarting spot as he glares at his sister. “What the hell was that for?”

“You idiot! I told you not to take any risks!” Morgana says, her voice sharp and her face tight with worry. “You nearly got yourself killed!”

Arthur softens instantly. “Morgana, I’m fine. See? All good.” His lips quirk upwards. “And why am I the only one getting hit? Merlin clearly deserves a smack or two, and more than me I should think.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Merlin says. “I’ve already had my share. The bruise on my shoulder took two weeks to heal.”

Morgana huffs. “Oh stop whining both of you and come inside. You look like you can use something warm to eat.” 

She turns on her heel and stalks back into the house with Arthur and Merlin following in her wake.

It’s surprisingly warm inside, though not very big. There’s no hall to speak of, just a coatrack and a slim shelf for shoes, and the kitchen and living area all blends into one. There’s a dark green monstrosity in one corner of the kitchen that Arthur vaguely recognises it as a tile stove. Ariadne lies curled up on its bench, seemingly asleep, but Arthur catches one of her golden eyes slitting open to give Merlin and him a once-over. Her gaze lingers on Aithusa for a moment and Aithusa tilts her head, before Ariadne’s eye slides shut once more.

Across the room, an open fire is burning. A rug covers the stone floor in front of the fireplace and two overstuffed armchairs and a small settee are scattered around it in a half-circle. There’s a bookshelf against the wall furthest from the fire and Arthur spots one or two familiar volumes, favourites that Morgana must’ve taken along. It makes him think of all the books she had to leave behind, but looking at her now, happy and healthy as she moves about in her own space, Arthur knows it doesn’t matter.

“Have you stopped by to see your parents yet?” Morgana asks, addressing Merlin as she putters about the small kitchen.

“No,” Merlin says, drawing out one of the wooden chairs around the dining table and folding onto it. “I thought it better to come here first. I’d really like to keep my shoulder free of bruises this time, thank you.”

Morgana rolls her eyes and starts ladling steaming liquid - broth? - into a couple of simple looking clay bowls.

Arthur joins Merlin at the table as Morgana brings the broth along with some roughly cut bread, a platter of cheese and some salad.

“Where is everyone else?” he asks as Morgana takes her seat across from him.

“Gwen and Lance are right next door,” she says, tearing one of the bread slices in half. “Percy and Gwaine are across the street and Elyan’s been staying with Merlin’s friend Will.” 

Arthur is then regaled with the story of how Elyan and Will moved in together simply because there hadn’t been a better option at that time and how they kept going on about getting their own place away from each other, while, as Morgana claims, neither of them actually wants to break up their living arrangement. Apparently Elyan and Will act as though they hate each other’s guts while secretly ‘they adore each other, really’ - Morgana’s words, not Arthur’s.

Arthur keeps mostly quiet, content to listen to Morgana and Merlin whip out story after story of what Arthur had missed over the past three months.

It’s almost as if they’d always done this, sat together over dinner in this tiny house with food that looks strange and tastes even stranger; somehow richer and more bland at the same time. 

There’s no capsules or pods in sight and everything looks paler and weirdly shaped, uneven and varying in size. Arthur never even realised how overly perfect his food had always looked like, not until now that he sees the naturally grown things before him.

He wonders, absently, why people think that perfection is something to aspire to, why stripping things off their character and shaping them all into the same form is considered a novelty. He thinks how empty life would be if it were filled with nothing but perfect things.

“You’re happy,” Morgana says quietly, when all the food is gone and Arthur joins her in the kitchen to bring the last of their dishes. Somewhere behind them, Merlin is in the process of trying to convince an enthusiastic Aithusa that Ariadne definitely wouldn’t enjoy playing with her.

He quirks a smile, folding his arms as he rests his hip against the counter. “So are you.” He sobers a little. “You are, aren’t you?”

Morgana smiles at him, a sweet genuine smile, and reaches out to gently squeeze his arm. “Yes, Arthur. I’m happy.” Her smile turns a little sharper. “Just don’t expect me to go all soft on you, just because I’m glad to have you back.”

Arthur snorts, but he’s grinning. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

*

They leave a little while later, making plans to visit again as soon as Arthur’s settled in, before stepping outside into the crisp night air. There’s a cool breeze blowing through the rows of houses, a lingering tang of salt filling Arthur’s mouth every time he licks his lips. 

He has no idea what the time is, but it must be late, because the narrow streets are all but deserted, the night only broken by the ever decreasing amount of ember lights from the windows and the blanket of stars above them. Without Merlin, he’d have been hopelessly lost, each house looking the same as the next and the overwhelming strangeness of his surroundings making it even harder to orientate himself.

Arthur’s head keeps turning, doing his best to take everything in at once while determinedly trying not to think about the fact that he’s about to meet Merlin’s parents. His eyes flicker from one small detail to another; a flower pot here, a forgotten broom leaning against an outer wall there. Runes are etched into every doorframe, lining the wood in an ornate pattern, but Arthur isn’t able to recall their meaning.

“They’re runes of concealment and protection,” Merlin says, apparently having followed Arthur’s gaze. “Mostly anyway.”

“I’d like to learn what they mean,” Arthur says and hates how it comes out as though he’s confessing to some kind of guilty pleasure.

But Merlin just smiles at him and leans in to brush a kiss against his cheek. “It’s not hard, I’ll teach you.”

They eventually stop at a house at the very edge of the small village and Arthur thinks that if he stands very still, he can hear the crashing of the waves in the distance. He thinks that in the light of day he might be able to see the sea if he climbs all the way to the roof.

Merlin doesn’t knock this time, simply opens the door and ushers Arthur inside. He almost expects it to look similar to Morgana’s house, but it doesn’t. The kitchen is on the other side, for one, and divided by a low wall. There’s no tile oven, just a huge fireplace and so many colourful rugs that the floor is almost entirely eclipsed by them. There’s fresh flowers on the table as well as the mantle piece, and a strange but soothing smell hangs in the air; it’s sweet mixed with something herbal.

A tall, dark-haired man is already halfway out of his seat by the time Merlin closes the door behind them. Merlin’s mother is slower, unsurprising as Arthur discovers her round belly. He’s no expert, but he’s sure that she must be quite far along, possibly in her last month of pregnancy. It makes Arthur blink in surprise, shooting a look at Merlin, before clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders, an instinctive gesture meant to cover up his nervousness.

Despite her roundness, Merlin’s mother is the first to reach them.

“Arthur,” she says warmly, as though she’s known him all his life. Arthur’s throat is dry, but his second attempt at clearing it gets stuck when Merlin’s mother hugs him, warm and full of affection. She feels soft and delicate, so much smaller than Merlin in a way, despite her roundness, but when she gives Arthur’s shoulders a squeeze there’s a hidden strength there that is all too familiar. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you. Merlin’s told us so much about you.”

Years of carefully honed etiquette kick in and Arthur somehow manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am,” he says, smooth and stiff in a way he only ever is in the face of true awkwardness.

If possible, her smile only widens and when Arthur sees her dimples it’s somehow even easier to see the family resemblance.

“Now, now, none of that,” she says with a laugh, affectionately squeezing Arthur’s arm. “Call me Hunith. And this is my husband, Balinor.”

Balinor’s smile is more reserved but no less genuine and when he offers Arthur his arm, Arthur clasps it without hesitation.

“Thank you,” Balinor says, looking straight at Arthur. “For returning our son. We know none of this must’ve been easy for you.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, to say that, really, it’d been Merlin who’d saved _him_ and then try and apologise again and- but Hunith cuts in gently, gesturing towards the settees by the fire.

“Please, sit,” she says. “You must be exhausted from travelling. I’ll pop into the kitchen and make us some tea.”

But Balinor gently catches her around the waist before she can take so much as a step. “ _You_ , my dear, will sit down and put your feet up. I’ll make the tea.”

“I’m pregnant, Balinor, not an invalid,” Hunith huffs and Arthur is torn between amusement and helpless affection at the undeniable resemblance to Merlin’s own brand of stubbornness, complete with the same look of defiance that always accompanies it.

“You’ve also already done more than enough today,” Balinor says, unrelenting. “So stay put and I’ll bring the tea.”

They settle down by the fire and Hunith enquires after their journey. Arthur lets Merlin do all the talking and mostly uses the tea Balinor gives him as an excuse not to say anything. The tea itself is delicious, strong and bitter and nothing at all like he’s used to.

By the time they’ve finished the pot, Hunith has yawned twice in the span of five minutes and Aithusa is snuffling quietly from where she’s curled up in Merlin’s lap, asleep. Arthur’s feeling a little drowsy himself, his legs heavy and his muscles stiff and aching. They collectively call it a night and Merlin carefully places Aithusa into the hood of his cloak.

Arthur had the impression that they’d be staying here, but then instead of upstairs, they’re moving back towards the front door and from then it’s all a flurry of _goodnight_ s and _see you soon_ s. Balinor says, “If you need help with anything, let me know alright?” and Hunith says that she’s “-stocked your kitchen with the basics-”

And Merlin is rolling his eyes and saying several variations of _That’s great_ and _Thank you_ and Arthur’s back to saying nothing and being quietly confused.

There’s hugs from Hunith and shoulder clapping from Balinor and by the time they’re back outside, Arthur’s glad for the chilly sea breeze, chasing away the lingering lull of the fire and kick-starting his brain into something workable once more.

“So,” he says slowly as they make their way down the darkened path into the opposite direction of where they came from before. “We’re not staying with your parents, then?”

Merlin throws him a quick glance. “No, I thought that it’d be nicer if we have our own space. We’re used to it and with the baby on the way it’ll give us all more room.” 

Arthur blinks, not having expected that at all. Merlin throws him another glance and bites his lip as they come to a halt in front of a small house, the shutters freshly painted and the runes on the doorframe sharp with how recently they’d been carved.

Arthur stares at it, taking in as much as he can in the dim light, stuck on the fact that, apparently, this is _their_ house and thinks he might already be a bit in love with it just for that alone.

Merlin turns to him and Arthur realises with a start that he looks nervous. The thread between them buzzes anxiously.

“I chose the spot and helped build it,” he says, wringing his hands a little. “I would’ve waited for you, but I thought it’d be nicer if we could just move in when you get here. We can change things, of course, whatever you want. And- and it’s not- I mean, I don’t have to move in with you, if you don’t want, if you prefer your own space and just- I can stay with my parents for now and-”

“Merlin, breathe,” Arthur interrupts gently, stepping closer and catching his still wringing hands in his own. Merlin breathes, but it’s a little shaky, the thread between them still vibrating with tension, and Arthur lets it pull them together and into a kiss.

He smoothes his hands across Merlin’s back, his sides, cups the perfect curves of his cheekbones. 

“Of course I want you to move in with me, you idiot,” Arthur says. “You think I spent three months missing you like crazy for you to not be with me properly now that I finally have you back? It’s more likely I won’t let you leave the house for a week so I can have you all to myself.”

Hot breath rushes across Arthur’s face as Merlin lets out a breath and the tension finally seems to drain out of him. He threads his fingers into Arthur’s hair, lips slowly curving into a brilliant smile.

“I think that can be arranged,” Merlin says.

“Good.” Arthur smiles and nudges their noses together, before drawing back and taking Merlin’s hand. “Now show me our house. I want to know what you did to the poor thing.”

Merlin scowls, says, “Piss off.” But obediently comes along when Arthur tugs him towards the front door. “I’ll have you know that I’m really good at keeping a household.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Really? First thing I hear about it.”

“Prat,” Merlin says with feeling, but then kisses Arthur again, right there on the porch.

 _Their_ porch.

*

When they finally make it inside, Arthur finds that the distribution of rooms is more or less the same as the other two houses he’s seen, with the living area and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. It’s clear that the house isn’t lived-in yet. There’s a few rugs here and there, two red settees by the fireplace and a sturdy wooden dining room table with matching chairs, but not much else. 

After shedding their cloaks in the hall and exchanging their boots for some strange felt things Merlin had claimed are house shoes, they take their bags upstairs and into the master bedroom. 

It’s spacious with a big window and a king sized bed, a sturdy four poster complete with deep crimson curtains. It looks like something a medieval king would have in his castle. A few linen sacks and wooden crates with Merlin’s things are littered about and Arthur nearly trips on one when he steps further into the room.

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” Merlins says, nudging the wooden crate out of the way with his foot. “I haven’t had a chance to move in properly yet, and I didn’t want to sleep here without you.”

Warmth spreads in Arthur’s chest and the thread between them hums happily. He hopes his smile doesn’t look as sappy as it feels. He tries to play over it with a haughty wave of his hand.

“Don’t worry, Merlin,” he says magnanimously. “I’ve always known you’re a slob.”

Merlin glares at him as he puts down his bag, before fishing the still sleeping Aithusa out of his hood.

“That’s rather rich coming from you,” he says as he bends down and retrieves what looks to be a whicker basket filled with old linen - and is that one of Merlin’s tshirts? - and putting it down next to the bed on his side. “If I hadn’t been picking up after you constantly there wouldn’t’ve been any clothes left in your dressing room - the way you always drop everything where you stand and change, like, ten times a day.”

Arthur opens his mouth, ready to protest that he certainly doesn’t change that often in a day, when he gets distracted by the way Merlin coos softly as he places a sleeping Aithusa into the basket. She fusses a little, before promptly burrowing into the tshirt and going still again with a snuffle.

The stupid fuzzy warmth from before is back full force and Arthur barely resists giving into the tug of the thread that demands he kiss Merlin senseless right this second.

Merlin can probably feel it as well, his smile soft and sweet when he looks up and catches Arthur’s eye.

“Usually she just ends up crawling into bed with me sometime during the night,” he says as he straightens himself from his crouch. “So if you feel something warm and scaly poking you don’t freak out.”

Arthur peers at the tiny dragon. “Isn’t it dangerous? Won’t we crush her or something?”

Merlin snorts and comes to stand at Arthur’s side. Arthur wraps an arm around him as they glance back at Aithusa, who’s rolled fully onto her stomach now, spindly wings spread and flung out carelessly.

“Hardly. I accidentally rolled on top of her once and she pinched me so hard I thought she’d taken a chunk of flesh out. She’s sturdier than she looks.”

Arthur hides a smile in Merlin’s hair, biting down on a snigger as he imagines Merlin shooting off the bed in the middle of the night.

“Stop laughing at me, it wasn’t funny,” Merlin protests. “It really hurt! Wait until she does it to you and then you’ll see what it’s like.”

Arthur ruffles his hair. “It won’t happen to me, because I’m not a klutz.”

Merlin pushes at his chest. “Shut up, you tosser, or Aithusa will be the only one sleeping next to you tonight.”

“Ooh,” Arthur mocks, grinning. “Serious threats.”

Merlin glares at him and picks up a quilt from the foot of the bed. “If you’re done being a prat, you can come join me. I’m going up onto the roof.”

*

The roof, despite not really meant for lying on, is surprisingly comfortable. With the quilt as buffer, the tiles dig only a little into their backs and though it's steep enough for snow to slide off in winter, it's not steep enough to be alarming. The air is even saltier here and Arthur is sure now that he can hear the sound of waves crashing against rocks not too far in the distance.

Now that he isn't holding his neck at an uncomfortable angle and trying to walk without falling on his face, Arthur has the time to try and drag out a constellation or two from the back of his mind. They did study some in school, but it hadn't been so much about the actual constellations and rather more about their connection to space travel. One wouldn't believe how many famous starships are named after stars or their position in the sky. After finally having written his last ever history exam, Arthur had been so sick of the topic that he’d been sure he’d never want to see another star chart in his life.

A cool breeze washes over them and Merlin shifts a little closer, a line of warmth along Arthur’s side.

“You didn’t tell me you’re about to become a brother,” Arthur says, turning his head slightly so he can look at the dim outline of Merlin’s profile.

“Yeah, sorry. With everything going on,” Merlin shrugs, giving Arthur his sheepish smile. “It was a surprise for everyone, including my parents. I think they were a bit nervous about telling me, as if I’d think they wanted to replace me or something. Which it’s obviously not - I mean I was surprised, sure, but I didn’t expect for them to put their lives on hold while I was gone, and I’m thrilled about the baby - it’s a girl, by the way.” Merlin is practically beaming now, eyes glinting in the dim light of the stars. “She’s going to be amazing, I just know it.”

Arthur smiles. “I’m sure she will be.”

Merlin shifts again, this time to turn fully on his side and face Arthur properly. Arthur moves to mirror him, bending one of his arms to pillow his head on it, the other one lying between them on the quilt.

“It’s a bit frightening, you know,” Merlins says, quiet now as if he’s sharing a secret. He traces absentminded lines along Arthur’s fingers. “I already feel so responsible.”

“I know,” Arthur says softly, turns his hand to thread their fingers together. “Morgana can drive me round the bend, but I wouldn’t know what to do without her. Growing up, I used to have no one but her and Gaius.”

Merlin squeezes his hand and curls a little closer, his breath warm on Arthur’s face.

“He’s here, you know,” he says. “Gaius. He came with the others. We can visits him tomorrow.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Is he alright?”

“He’s doing very well,” Merlin assures him. “Turns out he and my mum know each other. He’s taken over the pharmacy for now, until the baby’s here and big enough not to need her all the time.”

Arthur smiles, relieved. “I’m glad. I was worried about him.” He untangles his fingers and runs them up Merlin’s arm in an idle caress, feeling him shiver slightly. “Have your parents decided on a name yet?”

Merlin’s palm finds his chest, coming to rest over his heart, making the thread between them flare. 

“Emylie. My parents wanted something ordinary, said she’ll get enough attention as it is.”

Arthur hums, trying to imagine what Emylie will look like, if she’ll be anything like Merlin.

“Do you think she’ll have magic too?”

“Probably,” he says, tone turning a little dry. “Seems to run strongly in our family.” He sobers then, and Arthur watches his face darken, his brow furrowing into something troubled. “I worry so much for her. I don’t even know if I want her to be as ordinary as possible to better fly under the radar, or really powerful so she can better defend herself. She’s not even born yet and we’re already thinking about ways to keep other people from using her as a bartering tool.”

Arthur traces the curve of Merlin’s jaw, then wraps an arm around him to draw him in, hugging him tightly.

“Don’t worry,” he says into Merlin’s hair and kisses to the top of his head. “We’ll protect her, I promise.”

Merlin curls closer into him, the tip of his chilled nose pressing into the hollow of Arthur’s throat, before it’s followed up with warm lips. “Thank you.”

They stay like this for a while, content with only the gentle pull of their connection and the distant crashing of waves. Somewhere in the darkness, a dog barks and at one point Arthur’s sure he can hear two cats hissing at each other as they fight. He can’t believe that it had only been yesterday morning that he’d woken up alone in his too-big-too-small penthouse and felt like half a person - and now he’s here, safe and whole in his new home.

“It’s getting late,” Merlin says, a little muffled against his chest. “We should probably head inside.”

Arthur holds on a little tighter, not quite ready to give this up yet. “In a minute.” 

Merlin hums and brushes another fleeting kiss to his throat, making Arthur’s skin tingle with pleasure.

“You know,” Arthur says quietly, before he can talk himself out of it. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

Merlin shifts so he can raise his head and look at him. 

“Yeah? I have something for you, too. I didn’t really know when to give it to you, so-” He scrambles up into a sitting position, looking suddenly excited. “Hang on, let me get it.”

Merlin’s eyes flash gold and a moment later, a sloppily wrapped bundle comes flying through the trapdoor to the roof. It lands neatly in Merlin’s outstretched hand and Arthur sees him biting his lip as he turns back towards him.

Arthur sits up as well, their legs pressing together warmly where they’re facing each other. “How has me wanting to give you something turned into you giving me this?”

Merlin huffs and shoves the bundle into Arthur’s arms, looking annoyed even as Arthur can feel the echo of his nervousness. 

“Don’t be a dollop head and just open it.”

Arthur can’t help it, he raises an eyebrow. “Dollop head? Really?”

Merlin glares at him. “Just open the damn thing, okay?”

Taking pity, Arthur turns his attention to the bundle and slowly unwraps it. It’s a little heavier than he first expected and shrinks considerably in bulk as layer after layer falls away. Finally, he manages to get a glimpse at what’s inside, but the metal is so beautiful and ornate that it takes Arthur an embarrassingly long moment to realise what this is.

“It’s a sword,” he says dumbly, fingers carefully gliding over the intricate carvings.

“It’s called Excalibur. Be careful, it’s very sensitive,” Merlin says, his bottom lip red and shiny with all the gnawing he’s been doing on it. “I made it. It’s my magic- I mean, that’s how it works, with my magic. It only reacts to you, though, so you basically just have to think about wanting to use it and then the blade forms.”

Arthur is completely mesmerised, turning the handle over and over in his hands. He finally dares to grasp it properly, holding it a safe distance away as he thinks about activating the blade. It forms almost instantly. Unlike with his quantic sword, there’s no humming sound and the blade is bright gold, the same colour as Merlin’s eyes when he performs magic. It contrasts beautifully with the silver handle, making the line of golden runes on each side stand out even brighter.

“This is-” His voice doesn’t quite make it and he has to clear his throat. “I don’t even- I don’t know what to say.” He wills the blade away once more and traces the runes with his fingers. “What does it say?”

Merlin shifts a little closer, taps the line of runes on one side and says, “Here it says _Pick me up_ and here-” He shifts the handle in Arthur’s hold to turn it over and indicate the line on the other side. “It says _Cast me away_.”

Arthur feels his eyes sting, his chest so tight with emotion he can hardly bear it. The connection between them is pulsating and Arthur’s almost surprised that it’s still invisible, that the golden thread that ties them together isn’t right there, for the world to see, as it binds them together.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, voice hoarse.

Merlin smiles almost shyly, but his face is glowing, his happiness bubbling over and flooding Arthur like a tidal wave. “Yeah? You really like it?”

Arthur can’t not touch him then, has to reach over and drag him close. Their lips connect in a burst of warmth. “It’s perfect,” he murmurs, presses the words straight into Merlin’s mouth and kisses him again, softer now, deeper. “Fit for a king.”

Merlin laughs, a sound of pure joy that drowns in another kiss. His fingers thread into Arthur’s hair and he nuzzles into him, kissing the bridge of his nose.

“I’d tell you you’re my king,” Merlin says softly, eyes bright even in the dark of the night. “But I don’t need you to get a bigger head than you already have,”

Arthur can’t do anything but kiss him again, one of his palms curving around the nape of Merlin’s neck and drawing him in deeper, licking into the warmth of his mouth. Merlin makes that whimpery noise and presses closer, his magic already singing beneath Arthur’s skin as they fall backwards onto the quilt. Arthur arches up against him, wanting to get him even closer, when Merlin suddenly makes a small sound and draws back a little.

He’s breathless, warmth washing over Arthur’s face as he asks, “Wait, what about my present?”

Arthur blinks, then lets his head drop back and laughs. 

“Only you, Merlin,” he gasps, then laughs again at the look on Merlin’s face. “Give me your hand.”

Merlin frowns, looking down at Arthur with confusion. “What? Why?”

Arthur sighs in fond exasperation. “Do you want your present or not?”

Merlin gives him his hand and Arthur reaches into his pocket, retrieving the ring he’d been carrying around since Merlin came back to get him in the hope of finding an opportune moment to give it to him. He slides it onto Merlin’s right index finger, pleased to see that it fits even without having to do any adjustments.

Merlin stares at him, for once apparently completely speechless.

“It was my mother’s,” Arthur explains softly. “Passed on to her from her mother. I’m already wearing her wedding ring, so I couldn’t give you that. But this is the next best thing. Gaius once told me that she used to wear it every day before she married my father.”

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, his fingers curling tightly around Arthur’s, the unfamiliar feel of cool metal around his finger making something hot and possessive unfurl in Arthur’s chest. “I can’t take this-”

Arthur silences him with a kiss. “Yes, you can. I want you to have it.” He looks up at Merlin. “Please.”

All the air seems to rush out of Merlin’s lungs, and with it, his protests. He lets his head drop, gently bringing their foreheads together. “Thank you.”

Arthur smiles at him, then turns his head to bury his face in the familiar warmth of Merlin’s neck. His lips brush the pulse-point there, feeling the steady throb beneath his lips. Merlin sighs and tangles his fingers into Arthur’s hair.

“What do you think will happen now?” he whispers, so soft it’s almost lost in the steady thrum of their hearts, beating in sync.

“I don’t know,” Arthur says softly. “But it seems we have a destiny to fulfil. And if it’s rebels they want, then it’s rebels they’ll get.”

Arthur can feel Merlin’s smile against his skin first, before it meets his own, can feel Merlin’s ring pressing into the nape of his neck, firm enough to leave a mark. And later, when Arthur curls around Merlin in their bed, his lips will find a similar mark right there, where Arthur had held him close against him in this moment on the roof. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, where to begin.
> 
> I would’ve been terribly lost without the [Merlin Wiki](http://merlin.wikia.com/wiki/Merlin_Wiki/), srsly the ppl running this are amazing and do wonders for the fandom.
> 
> Dermal regenerators are something I lifted straight from Star Trek, you can read about them [here](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Dermal_regenerator/).
> 
> Ariadne I imagine to look like [this](http://media.massal.net/black-cute-cat/x/black-cat-profile-ground-sunset-yellow-eyes-100804-p.jpg).
> 
> I’ve uploaded blueprints of Arthur’s flat [here on my lj](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/ot_mornmeril/14993982/2677/2677_900.jpg) \- and by ‘blueprints’ I mean my pathetic attempts at drawing an approximation of what it’s supposed to look like XD.
> 
> Other references to Arthur’s flat:  
> [\- the famous floating settees](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-awt0JYLS2FQ/UQNB5wGWhaI/AAAAAAAAAWg/MXq1UutiAbc/s1600/magnetic_floating_sofa_kootouch_content.jpg)  
> [\- the kitchen counters (kind of)](http://www.planakitchen.com/wp-content/gallery/z-island-kitchen/02_z-island_by_dupont_corian_jpg.jpg)  
> [\- the bed](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JBVhCmUpNgE/UQNClDsJPpI/AAAAAAAAAWw/DyJOS1odRRM/s1600/hican-bed-futuristic-bed-room.jpg)  
> [\- the shower](http://www.flickr.com/photos/39971114@N05/3910002338/in/set-72157622213516631)  
> [\- the bath](http://diariodesign.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/Jump-the-Gap-Roca-Freebath-de-Danil-Gavrish-y-Yuri-Uimanov.jpg)
> 
> \- most of which I found in collective posts [here](http://futuristicluxuryfurniture.blogspot.co.at) and [here](http://www.hongkiat.com/blog/futuristic-home-furnitures).
> 
> In case you aren’t familiar with Arthur’s ring that he inherited from Ygraine you can find it [here](http://static1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20120506095209/merlin1/images/a/a7/Merlin1052.jpg) and [here](http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/27500000/Merlin-4-11-The-Ring-That-Binds-Fate-2-arthur-and-gwen-27583844-500-226.gif) \- in the second pic, Arthur is holding [Gwen's engagement ring](http://img1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20120801210342/merlin1/images/9/9e/GwensRing528.png) which, here, is the one he gives Merlin at the end.
> 
> I always imagined the hover-cars to look like [the ones from Total Recall](http://gearheads.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/Total-Recall-Car-by-Harald-Belker.jpg).
> 
> The city:
> 
> My Camelot was inspired mostly by these pics, which I also used in my fake wiki articles:  
> [General city landscape by rich35211](http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2011/214/0/9/futuristic_city_3_by_rich35211-d3hv8mi.jpg)  
> Upper level  
> [by tigaer](http://tigaer.deviantart.com/art/THE-CITY-OF-LIGHTS-53968036)  
> [by aksu](http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs33/f/2008/311/b/5/Inner_city_by_aksu.jpg)  
> [by JJasso](http://th09.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/i/2012/118/6/0/futuristic_city_by_jjasso-d2w7y14.jpg)  
> Below  
> [by Peter Ang](http://features.cgsociety.org/newgallerycrits/g37/307237/307237_1250358458_large.jpg)  
> [by James Paick](http://features.cgsociety.org/newgallerycrits/g86/302986/302986_1221672522_large.jpg)
> 
> \- which I more or less all found in [this collective post.](http://blog.zeemp.com/40-awesome-futuristic-city-illustrations/) and for references as to kingdoms/city states, borders etc. I used [this map of Albion](https://farm4.staticflickr.com/3669/10756240615_d7816b4036_b.jpg) and [this map of Camelot](http://static3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20101105235805/merlin1/images/6/66/Map_Of_Camelot.jpg) \- both curtsey of the BBC.
> 
> Hair
> 
> Hair for women in my universe is a big thing and I amused myself with looking up hairstyles for anyone who’d like to know what I meant by ‘elaborate hairdo’ XD. (in order of appearance)  
> [Vivian](http://slodive.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/fancy-hairstyles/cute-hairstyle.jpg)  
> [Nimueh](http://www.lovethispic.com/uploaded_images/31346-Fancy-Hairstyle.png)  
> [Elena](http://www.modernwedding.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/5-SB-Braid-2.jpg)  
> [Mithian](http://weddinggoal.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/side-braid-hairstyles-for-wedding.jpg)  
> [Gwen](http://wedding-beauty.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/Wedding-Hairstyles-for-Curly-Hair.jpg)  
> [Morgana](http://howtodooo.com/wp-content/uploads/mvbthumbs/img_1516_intricate-5-strand-braid-hair-tutorial-hairstyle-bebexo.jpg)  
> [Sophia](https://d3qcduphvv2yxi.cloudfront.net/assets/6068365/view_large/A_A_Lillie_Hair_Strawberryblonde-pic.jpg?1344717761)
> 
> I think that’s about it? If I’ve forgotten anything, then I’ll add it later.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading ♥︎!


End file.
